


I've Heard That Song Before

by Pokimoko



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Awesome Howling Commandos, Awesome Peggy Carter, Before Bucky Fell, Before the Valkyrie crashed, Best Friends, Bucky Barnes & Steve Rogers Friendship, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Has Issues, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes-centric, Bucky travels through time, Bucky's Programming, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Deals with Past, Dissociation, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Epic Bromance, F/M, Gen, Guilt, Historical, Hydra (Marvel), Implied Inhuman Character, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Minor Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Old Friends, Original Character Death(s), POV Bucky Barnes, Past - 1944, Past Brainwashing, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Present - 2015, Psychological Trauma, Recovering Memories, Recovery, References to the Holocaust, Rescue Missions, Romany/Gypsy Characters, Self-Hatred, Set in Hungary, Team Bonding, Time Travel, Trains, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, Winter soldier Bucky meets the Howling Commandos, Women Being Awesome, World War II, long chapters, old times, russian words
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-11-10 04:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pokimoko/pseuds/Pokimoko
Summary: Bucky has been wandering, lost, for almost a year, trying to rediscover himself, and his past. While in Hungary, he meets an old Romany lady who promises to help him. He accepts, not realising that her form of help involves time travel. He gets sent back to 1944, into the body of his younger self, in the height of World War Two. Bucky, with no clear idea of how to return to the future, tries his best to rediscover the Bucky that Steve, Peggy and the Howling Commandos know him to be, whilst also having to deal with a mission that will test even the best of them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone. This is a new fic I've been working on (sorry to those who've been waiting for me to update my other stories. Blame this story for stealing my writing time). I did heaps ( and I mean heaps) of studying to get this as accurate as I could but there might be some inaccurate details. This fic is basically me satisfying my need for Post Winter Soldier Bucky to meet Steve, Peggy and the Howling Commandos before his 'death'. I live for character interactions. Also, I just really like Bucky. 
> 
> Any mistake is my own. Please enjoy.

**8th of May, 2015**

**South of Kemence, Hungary**

 The train tracks were silent, absent of the clicking of train wheels upon metal. Instead, a quiet hum was what could be heard, along with the soft whirr of machinery, all of which echoed out from the lone figure who wandered down the tracks. The murmured melody was that of ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’, the hum a gentle imitation of the song’s jazz tones. The humour of the song choice, however, was lost on the wanderer who hummed it. He didn’t smile, or frown, as he hummed. His expression was blank, unwavering in its stillness, only his hair dancing in movement as he walked. His hair was relatively long, just past his chin, and he wore old clothes, holes here and there in the fabric. On the left sleeve, metal glimmered through these punctures, yet it was dulled by dirt and ash that was yet to have been washed off. The cleanest thing on his person was the backpack he carried, which looked more cared for then he did himself. He kept humming, not bothered by his own dishevelled look.

 He didn’t recognise the tune he hummed, yet somehow it played on his tongue and stung his lips, which perplexed him. It was a paradox that had befallen him many times in the last year. Several times, a song, or quote, or even a name, would fall from his lips, and he would not know where he had heard it. It was the same with his memories. They were just there in his head for him to find. Everything in his mind was secondhand, once having fit perfectly in a lost life, but now struggling to cling to him, to remain a part of him.

 The discomfort that nibbled at him as he walked within the train tracks was also pre-owned. Somewhere, deep in the recesses of his self, he felt fear. A foggy thought lingered as he travelled along the track, one of falling, of a man he now knew screaming his name, and he himself screaming desperately. He shook his head, trying to clear the net that trapped his mind. That fear belonged to part of him that was now dead. He didn’t want that weakness.

 But then again, he was nothing but weak now. Broken, shattered, cracked. So much so, that he did not care if a train sped down the track he walked upon and destroyed the rest of the shards that made up what was left of James Buchanan Barnes. The only thing stopping him was the niggling thought that Steve would cry (and the fact the tracks didn’t accommodate a big enough train capable of killing him). Steve was already going through enough, with flying cities and megalomaniacal robots (that is what the news said, anyway), and if his friend died, it would be overwhelming. Besides, he didn’t want to hurt Steve anymore. He’d hurt him by merely existing as a bad imitation of his Bucky.

 Maybe if Steve never knew…He shook his head gently, berating himself. No, Steve deserved his friend. He deserved the guy he grew up with, fought with, had ‘died’ avenging. The person who was almost a brother. Dying wouldn’t help either Steve or him find Bucky. It would just make it impossible. He couldn’t fail this mission. This was the most important one.

 He sighed, stopping as he did. He’d walked for hours with nothing to distract him from his mind. It wasn’t good for anyone when he got caught up in his mind. He turned away from the endless tracks, looking out to the wilderness that bordered them, eyes flitting over it as he breathed in the lush smell of the forest. It was effortlessly beautiful. He took slow breaths, feeling the fractured, yet present, calm wash over him. He listened to the wind whistle through the leaves, the sounds of small animals scurrying probably miles away, the sound of footsteps behind him -

 His eyes widened, and he spun with hasty elegance, falling into a defensive stance, right hand hovering over his gun, the other over one of his numerous knives. The notebooks in his backpack rolled, and a few corners dug into his back uncomfortably, but he ignored it. He didn’t relax even when he observed that it was an elderly gypsy lady who had approached him, around 90 years old or so. Age didn’t always hinder combat prowess, as he was already to familiar with, given his true age. The lady was wearing traditional garments, and had amassed many layers upon herself, enough to hide a weapon easily. He narrowed his eyes warily as she held her hands up.

 “Calm down, Bucky. I mean no harm to you,” she said calmly, apparently unaffected by the show of agitation. She had a thick Hungarian accent, but her English was steady and fluent.

 He - Bucky, he corrected, because it _was_ his name- relaxed ever so slightly, though his hands remained above his weapons. The lady did seem sincere, but then again, Pierce had been sincere in his half truths. Trust wasn’t something Bucky did well. He felt that distrust of people was there even before he had become the Winter Soldier. It was a comforting thought that, for it proved he had at least one thing in common with his past self. The fact the woman knew his name was a good reason to be suspicious. Was she HYDRA? Or someone who’d recognised him? Either way, she could end up dead on the tracks, blood staining the metal as he escaped. He didn’t want to kill anymore, but if he had to, he would. It was a sad, but inescapable truth.

 Bucky cocked his head, studying the woman quietly. A small, pleasant smile graced her lips, crinkles from of lifetime of joy folding ever so slightly around her eyes. Harshness was absent from her expression, though a jagged cut above her left eye displayed that her life had not been without pain. Bucky blinked when he realised she was waiting for him to speak, her eyebrows raised and head tilted forward slightly. He frowned, licking his lips as he tried to remember how to talk properly. It’d been awhile since he last spoke, so his voice rough and cracked.

 “...who are you?”

 “A friend,” she answered simply.

 The lady smiled knowingly. Bucky scowled in frustration. He had taken the effort to speak, so she could have at least have answered with her name, which would have been helpful. Bucky couldn’t remember most of his ‘friends’, and he was beginning to suspect he didn’t have many, save for Steve and some blurry faces he couldn’t name from the war.

 The lady again seemed to be waiting him to talk. Bucky felt a strangely familiar exasperation. An image of a stubborn, blond haired, young-looking boy appeared in Bucky’s mind, a quiet utterance of a once louder sentence: “ _Eat your damn food, Steve!”_ , and the reply of a sharp shake of the head, and obstinate refusal: “ _No! Not until you’ve eaten, Buck”_. And there, in that memory, exasperation. Bucky wondered why he had been annoyed at Steve Rogers for caring about him, but right now, he understood his present exasperation. This lady was getting on his nerves.

 Bucky stepped forward onto the railway, using it to raise himself higher, as he tried to look threatening, his metal fist clenching as he raised it slightly. The intended effect may have been hindered by the fact that a glove covered his fist, for the lady eyed it in amusement, chuckling as she looked up to his eyes.

“You wouldn’t hit an old lady, would you?”

 Bucky faltered, his hand falling.

“No...I don’t do...that anymore.”

 “Oh, so you used to hit old ladies?” she replied, smirking.

 “What, no!” Bucky defended hurriedly. He didn’t add the ‘I don't think I did, anyway’ that echoed in his mind. The gypsy lady laughed at his reaction to her accusation, her laughter like a rusty bell. Bucky scowled.

 “You are a mean gypsy,” he muttered petulantly.

 The lady’s smile didn’t fade, but an annoyed look shadowed her eyes.

“Romani, or Roma, if you please. ‘Gypsy’ is a word I’m not fond of.”

 Bucky bowed his head shamefully. He was all too familiar with being called something against his consent, with the word ‘asset’ flickering in his mind.

“I’m sorry.”

 “I am not mad at you. After all you did for me,” she said, a hint of sadness as she watched him.

 Bucky blinked. He heard the heaviness of her words, but he didn’t understand why.

“Am...am I supposed to know you?”

 She shook her head slowly.

“No. Not yet. But I know you.”

 Bucky frowned at her words, and how they mirrored Steve’s ‘ _you know me’_. He must know her, somehow. He must have forgotten, just as he did with Steve. Bucky stepped off the track and towards the lady. He stared at her, trying to see if any memories would flutter into existence. She interrupted his thoughts with a soft spoken order.

“I need you to follow me, Bucky.”

 “No. Not until you tell me who you are,” he pleaded sternly. Maybe if he had a name, he could remember.

 She sighed.

“My name is Vadoma Beldane. I know that won't mean anything to you. But this will.”

 She shifted, pulling out a small satchel from under her clothes that Bucky hadn’t seen before. He withdrew, uncertain. It could hold a gun, or a knife. Maybe this lady - Vadoma - had come to kill him, and was just toying with him. His left fist clenched, but he didn't hit her. He didn’t want to kill her before he knew exactly who she was, why she knew him and what she wanted. She opened the satchel, and he blinked in surprise when she pulled out a piece of paper.

 It was old, yellowed by many years, the corners tattered. Bucky tilted his head, confused. Vadoma shook it slightly.

“Take it. It’s for you.”

 Bucky pinched the paper hesitantly and pull it gently out of her hands, taking it into his own. His eyes lingered on Vadoma, but she nodded her head towards it, quietly telling him to read it. He tilted his head down to look at it, almost dropping it in shock when he read the distinctly familiar handwriting.

  _You can trust Vadoma. She’ll help you, Bucky._

 The style of the writing spoke louder than the words. It was old fashioned, the letters looping and boyishly messy, the cursiveness making it slightly hard to read. But he had no trouble. He knew that writing. Even he could not forget it.

 “That’s….my handwriting,” he murmured.

 “It is,” Vadoma confirmed.

 Bucky looked up, frowning in confusion.

“How-”

 Vadoma shook her head sharply, silencing him.

“I can’t tell you. I’m sorry. Will you come with me anyway?”

 Bucky looked to the note again. It was old; that was the problem. It meant a long time ago, Bucky wrote this note. Why? What was so important about this lady? Bucky hands shook as he tried to piece the confusing puzzle. The note didn’t bring forth any memories. Not even a spark of recognition, or a foggy image. But there was a story behind it, and the woman it spoke of.

 “Okay,” he answered, trying his best to hide his uncertainty of the decision.

 Vadoma bowed her head, and turned away, stepping off the tracks and towards the wilderness adjacent to the one Bucky had been gazing at before she arrived. Bucky shifted his backpack, tugging at the straps, and began following cautiously, staying behind her as she walked slowly down and through the forest. Bucky eyes tracked around, wary of any potential assailant hidden amongst the trees. But none ever appeared, and he arrived unharmed in a small field.

 Just across it, at the opposite side of the rim, a single, yet large bender tent stood proudly. A small handcart sat beside it, filled with empty food crates. A fire pit was before the tent, logs surrounding it in a half circle. Bucky noticed a hitching post close to it, bundles of hay beside it, but no horse. Tracks made by a carriage ran out into the forest. Wherever the horse was, it was with that absent carriage. Someone else must live here, Bucky noted, but wasn’t present right now. He’d have to be wary about that.

 They approached the tent silently, no conversation shared between them. Bucky passed the firepit and reached the opening, looking inside. Despite the traditional appearance of the outside, the interior was relatively modern, with furniture that had evidently been bought from a store. A double bed was situated at the far end of the tent, perpendicular to the entrance, an armchair at the end of it. A thin bench table was placed against the tent wall, photos upon it, both monochrome and in colour. Bucky noted how each held an image of Vadoma, glimpses of younger years in the black and white photos, and images of another lady Bucky did not recognise appearing in the more recent photos. A few books also lay on the table, forming a short tower. Underneath the table, Bucky could see baskets filled with folded clothes. At the opposite wall, there was a food drawer, but no fridge or oven to accompany it. It was not much, but Bucky knew it was enough to live in reasonable comfort.

 Beside him Vadoma smiled.

“I know it is quaint, but you will be safe here. I promise.”

 Once they were both inside, Bucky turned towards Vadoma, glaring at her, holding up the note.

“Explain what this is.”

 “It’s the reason you should trust me. I’m only here to help.”

 “With what? How exactly can you help me?” he barked.

 Vadoma didn’t even flinch at his raised voice.

“I can help you with your memories.”

 Bucky recoiled.

“What?” he breathed quietly. How did she know about that? Bucky’s left arm whirred as he pulled his shoulder’s closer to himself.

 Vadoma didn’t notice his reaction, looking wistful as she stared down at her wrinkled hands.

“I have certain…..powers, that can help you regain what you have lost.”

 She returned her gaze to Bucky. He frowned. He knew that powered individuals existed, so her words weren’t outrageous. But most power came around due to science. Like Steve...like himself. Vadoma must have seen his confusion, for she continued speaking, a small shrug rustling her clothing.

“I have a….unique heritage.”

 “....You have….hereditary powers?” Bucky asked, furrowing his eyebrows. He’d never heard of that before.

 “In a sense, yes. My powers allow me to control the phases of consciousness and memory, and return them to previous states.” When she sighted Bucky’s confused face, she amended her statement to be less like scientific jibberish. “Simply, I able to manipulate the mind.”

 It was as if someone had pulled a trigger. Everything snapped in Bucky’s head, an explosion of fear igniting at those words. He stepped back blindly, his prosthesis whirring as he clenched his fist, feeling a sense of dread spark. Visions of a chair fogged his head, phantom straps tightening around his wrists. The machine that manipulated his mind. That stole his life.

“No….no, no, no.”

 He stumbled towards the entrance, trying to get away, feeling the ghostly straps dragging his legs down ( _not again, please, not again_ ). He didn’t make it far, falling to the ground bonelessly, landing on his metal arm, which groaned in irritation. His limbs wouldn’t listen to his commands, leaving him to lie on ground, his backpack weighing him down, burdened with notebooks filled with heavy words. He felt his body shivering, as his mind continued to produce memories of that bloody chair. And the pain. And the emptiness that always followed.

 “Not the chair, not the chair, don’t take me back, I want my memories, please, don’t” he mumbled incoherently to the ground, as if it would save him .

 A hand touched his right shoulder gently, and he flinched away.The world was blurry, so he couldn’t focus on the lady who crouched beside him, but he heard her say his name. It was an anchor, that single word, and the fogginess drained away, and he looked up to Vadoma, who had a concerned look pulling tightly at her wrinkled face.

 “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up bad memories. I swear I won’t destroy your identity as they did. All I wish to do is to help you remember.”

 “Can you make me forget too?” he whispered desperately.

 Vadoma blinked, surprised.

“Yes…..but I can’t-”

 “Please,” he begged, feeling a small spark of hope flare in his chest, “just the years I was the Asset. I don’t want those. I just…..I just want to be Bucky again.”

 “ _I can’t_ remove years worth of memories,” she continued sympathetically, “A month at best. I’m sorry.”

 Bucky felt hollow as he lay on the ground, not feeling the strength to get back up, the hope fading away to disappointment. He was stuck with those awful years of his life forever. He was never going to go back to how he was. How Steve wanted him to be.

 “But I can help you reconnect with your past. To feel like Bucky again,” he heard Vadoma say distantly.

 He tilted his head up to her, trying his best to focus his mind away from the dark thoughts that plagued him.

“...You can?”

 “Yes,” she asserted. She held out her hand, and Bucky hesitantly put his own into it, allowing her to help him up into a sitting position. He tucked his knees in close, wrapping his hands around them. He knew he must look so childishly sad, but he didn’t care. Vadoma didn’t seem to either, sitting down stiffly beside him. Moments passed, a silence that was neither comfortable or awkward.

 Bucky thought over her request. It was tempting, of course, but he only just met this woman. He couldn’t be sure if she was lying or not about her powers. But if he didn’t try this, this almost certain way to get his old self back, then he would probably regret it. He was too desperate to be Bucky to reject it. He would do anything it takes.

 “Okay.”

 “Okay?” Vadoma repeated softly, eyebrows raised in question. Bucky nodded an affirmative, and pushed himself off the ground, feeling his strength return now the phantoms straps had disappeared. Once he was standing, he helped Vadoma up with his right arm, lifting her from the ground with ease. She shot him a grateful smile, keeping her hand in his as she walked into the tent. Bucky let her lead him in. He took off his backpack, placing it at the entrance so if he had to escape, he could easily pick it up. He tucked the note Vadoma had given him into the front pocket for safekeeping. Once he had done that, she took him to the bed, tugging him forward gently and nodding her head to the mattress, asking silently for him to sit.

 He complied, feeling the bed sink under him. He brushed the throw with his flesh hand, feeling comforted with the soft, fluffy texture. Neither the KGB or HYDRA had allowed the Asset to enjoy comfort. Everything the Asset had been surrounded by was harsh and cold. He hoped the throw’s warmth would keep him in his right mind for whatever was about to happen.

 Vadoma held her hand up, and slowly reached towards his forehead, allowing Bucky to watch her do so, and prepare for her touch. She brushed his hair out of his face with a gentleness he was not used to. All he could do was blink in surprise, unsure how to respond. Vadoma spoke quietly.

 “I’ll need you to lie down, and be calm.”

 Bucky watched her for a moment, checking one final time for any sign of deceit. But he could see none whatsoever, and so he did as she said, sinking into the bed. He deepen his breaths, trying his best to imitate calm.

 “Good,” Vadoma commented. “Now, close your eyes. I will place my hand on your forehead. Is that okay?”

 He nodded and closed his eyes, greeting the darkness willingly. Visions of the chair appeared, flickering like fireflies, but he brushed them away. He had to do this. For himself, and for Steve. He rubbed the throw between his flesh fingers, letting the material assure him that he was safe, that he would be okay. He felt Vadoma place her palm of his forehead, the grooved skin warm at the touch.

 “This will feel strange. I have been told it is like being tugged, “ she chuckled, before continuing. “It’ll feel even stranger when you wake up. It’ll probably hurt a bit too, and you’ll probably be incredibly tired, given the nature of my powers. You’ll also feel different, more like your old self, and it might take some adjusting. From there, it’s up to you to chose what to do with what I have provided. It’s up to you to remember. Many depend on you, _Bak_ , to do what is right….. But I am certain you will know what to do, as you did before. Are you ready?”

 Bucky furrowed his brow, still not following everything she was saying, but understanding the overall notion. He wasn’t ready of course, but he wouldn’t voice that. The mantra of _‘For Steve_ ’ ran on repeat, helping him remain calm and determined. It’s what let him stay on that bed, and let this stranger help him based on word and note alone. After a deep, steadying breath, he nodded.

 He felt Vadoma’s hand press down harder, and the soothing warmth of her skin seemed to transcend into his head. She was not wrong about the strange feeling. Bucky began to feel weightless, disconnected, like a balloon in the wind. Even with his eyes closed, he felt everything fade away. He couldn’t feel anything but the sensation that he was floating. It was wonderful, like he was lying back in a sea of clouds, and he was being taken away from the shore, away from the darkness that played there. He didn’t know where he was going, but he felt comfort in the thought that the world was disappearing, letting him slip away upon the waves of mist. Maybe they’d take him all the way to the distant shore he knew harboured his old self. He felt happy in that thought.

 Then Bucky felt something pull him down. Sharply. The floating feeling disappeared and was replaced with a feeling Bucky knew too well. Falling. It wasn’t like the last time, with snow and blood and pain and horror. This time it felt….disconnected. It wasn’t like he was physically falling, more like his mind was, away from the foggy waves that he’d felt like he’d been sailing on. He didn’t even know how that was possible. The falling ending abruptly, and Bucky felt the world around him return. Solid, and undoubtedly real.

 But it wasn’t the same. Bucky could tell even before he opened his eyes. He wasn’t on a bed anymore, and he wasn’t lying on his back either, as he had been. Instead, his lay on his right shoulder, and the ground beneath him grassy and moist. The scent on the air was of leaves and a distant bonfire. But that wasn’t the strangest thing Bucky noticed. His body felt off, unusual. He couldn’t place why.

 Bucky opened his eyes slowly, peering out. He was in a forest, not unlike the one he had been in before, the tent and Vadoma absent. Night painted it’s eerie colours over the landscape, contrasting the daylight Bucky had been in only a minute or so beforehand. Bucky frowned in confusion. Was this a memory? Was this how Vadoma’s power worked, by allowing him to relive memories and therefore remember them? He swiveled his head, looking around. The place did seem familiar, but only vaguely so. He groaned when he felt his eyes begin to sting, along with a painful headache. It wasn’t anything compared to what he had experience during his time as the Winter Soldier, so he ignored it.

 He continued searching the horizon of the forest. In the distance, not to far from where he lay, he noticed the glow of a fire. Bucky pushed himself up into a sitting position, right hand holding his body up, and squinted, trying to discern the figures he could see sitting around the flames. He heard the vague mutterings of the people, but none of the words were distinct enough to understand. Bucky stilled when he saw one of them rise and wander in his direction, the fire providing a dramatic backdrop as the figure approached. Bucky felt his flight instincts battles with his need to fight.

 It’s just a memory, Bucky assured himself. But it felt so real. He shook his head. No, just a memory. The figure continued approaching, and Bucky curled into himself, watching it with wary eyes. His eyes widened when he heard the figure call in a voice he recognised.

 “Bucky, hey, are you okay. You’ve been gone awhile.”

 Steve. Bucky felt a turmoil of emotions uncoil inside of him. Fear. Regret. Fondness. Grief. Bucky didn’t know what to do. Steve was getting closer. Bucky wasn’t ready to see him, memory or not. He hoped dearly that the memory would play out as intended, and he would just be a passenger to watch. Steve continued to call. Bucky remained silent, waiting for his old self to react.

 But it never did, and Steve soon found him.

“Bucky! There you are. Why didn’t you answer?”  

 Bucky blinked, feeling himself tremble. Steve crouched down beside him, tilting his head. Bucky noticed how he looked younger. It was the eyes. They looked so much less burdened, glittering with a hope Bucky hadn’t seen last time. He continued to stare at the youthful eyes, seeing them narrow in concern.

 “Are you alright?”

 Bucky frowned at Steve’s question. This…..didn’t feel right. Nothing did. Why did this feel so real? Bucky clawed at the ground with his right hand, feeling the dirt under his nails, and the deepening of the small trenches he was creating. The sense of wrongness was growing. He shouldn’t be able to manipulate the memory.

 Steve was looking incredibly concerned now. He put his hands on Bucky’s shoulders. It was probably a thing they used to do, the two of them - Bucky couldn’t recall - but he wasn’t ready for it, and flinched at his friend’s touch. That didn’t help ease Steve’s worry, because he looked like he had been kicked, and his hands retreated away. Bucky finally spoke, albeit quietly, remorse pulling words forcefully from his mouth.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

 Steve frowned.

“What’s happened? What’s wrong?”

 Bucky shook his head, but not to answer. He was trying to remember this moment. But nothing appeared. The memory alluded him. His breath quickened against his bidding. He needed to figure out what Vadoma had done. This wasn’t right.

 “Where -” he began. He was going to say ‘where am I’, but stopped himself, realising that would sound incredibly strange.

“…...where are we?”

 Steve furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, which easily pieced together with his concerned eyes.

“....Just east of Nógrádszakál. In Hungary. Don’t….you remember?”

 Bucky shook his head. Steve anxious face contorted further (how that was possible was beyond Bucky) and he placed the back of his palm on Bucky’s head, checking for fever, which proved how strange Bucky must be acting if Steve believed him to be sick. They both flinched; Bucky because of the sudden touch, and Steve because of the heat that was being emitted by former’s forehead. Bucky felt the programming in his mind growl lazily, but his headache seemed to be deterring the Asset from surfacing. Bucky brushed off the captain’s hand as it remained hovering above his forehead using his left hand to do so.

 It was then when he realised why his body felt wrong. When he saw his arm, he froze, and his breath escaped him. When he regained his breath, it was fast and shaky, and was unable to keep his composure from falling apart. His whole body trembled as he stared at his left hand.

 It was human. Skin, bone, flesh, muscle. The metal plates of his prosthesis were gone. Bucky stared at it, this foreign arm that he knew shouldn’t feel alien to him. But it was. He hadn’t had it for 70 years. The arm shook with all the confusion and shock the rest of his body felt. It was undeniably part of him, he could feel it now, the natural bonding of arm to shoulder. He could vaguely hear the man ( _Steve?_ ) talking to him, then shouting, but he ignored him. He touched the arm with the other, feeling his skin brush the fingers, the bones. The softness of skin that he never had with his prosthesis. His sight blurred, the headache he’d been ignoring flaring up, stronger than before.

 Bucky looked up when he heard footsteps. Many of them. Figures appeared, rushing to crouch beside the man. They all wore the same expression. Concern. Bucky didn’t understand why. They looked familiar, he realised, after he inspected their faces. Were they friends? Or handlers he’d had once? Everything was getting foggy, and all he could hear was distant voices.

 “Bucky! Talk to us. Bucky!”

“Jimmy! Sarge! Someone slap him or something.”

“Barnes! Can you hear us?”

“ _Sergent.Te sens-tu bien?_ ”

 As Bucky felt unconsciousness begin pulling him down, he groaned in belated realisation that this moment never happened. This was something new altogether, something even his fragmented memories didn’t hide. The fact that this hadn’t happened could mean only one thing.  He was actually in this moment, living it. He wasn’t watching the events happen; he was making them happen.

 His last thought before darkness overcame him was filled with bitter amusement.

_‘Reconnect with your past’. ‘More like your old self’. Damn it….The gypsy bloody tricked me. This is what I get for wanting to remember…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in a day and learnt some Русский to boot. Aren't I awesome?
> 
> Nah, I'm kidding. I wrote this before posting the first chapter, and my Russian is far from fluent, though I have been learning it (life achievement is that I can say all the Russian dialogue in Captain America: Civil War now. A mostly pointless yet awesome achievement). That being said, there'll probably be a bit of Russian in this story. Sorry not sorry.

**Unknown Date**

**East of Nógrádszakál, Hungary**

 Bucky woke with a start. He blinked away the lingering nightmares, breathing in slow, precise breaths as he waited for the images to fade. An ashy pile of burnt wood replaced them, and Bucky frowned, trying to recall how he ended up at a bonfire, wrapped in a sleeping bag.

 Bucky peered around. He was in a forest, one that he knew he recognised, but the fogginess of sleep obscured his already fragmented memories further. He always had trouble in the morning trying to find his past, and it had led to many days starting with a panic attack when he woke without memory of his name, or when blood stained his hands and he didn't remember why. Those days were always terrible.

 He pushed himself up, groaning at the pain in his arm as it struggled to do so. He frowned when he realised it was his left arm. He frowned, confused, not used to his prosthesis hurting. Maybe he’d jarred it recently. He raised it up to check if it was malfunctioning.

 The memories from the night before flooded in. Bucky's eyes widened, the dulled shock from the night before hitting him hard as he stared at his flesh arm. It was so strange, and he stared at for a while, taking it in. After a while, he clenched the fist experimentally, feeling the nails dig into his palm. It _hurt_. He pulled up his sleeve, observing the rest of this strange new ( _old?_ ) limb. The skin was soft, not harshly solid like his prosthetic. He stroked it, feeling it shiver under his fingers. It was so damn natural and yet so foreign, and he was just mesmerised by the strangeness of this whole situation.

 Whatever Vadoma had done, he wasn’t in his own time. He wasn’t in a memory either, because he had full control and the world was reacting to him. So, time-travel? Bucky had never thought it possible….well, not in reverse. He’d woken up many times from cryo, years, sometimes decades after he’d been put in. But going into the past was new. He thought over what Vadoma had said. Something about controlling phases of consciousness and memory, and….returning them to previous states.

  _Oh_. Bucky groaned in realisation. She had practically told him, albeit with technobabble. He was definitely annoyed that she hadn’t outright told him. But then again, if she had, he probably wouldn’t have allowed her to help him. He knew he’d probably would’ve run. Bucky sighed. There was no point in thinking about things that didn’t matter now. He needed to focus on his situation now.

 He looked to his arm again. The fact he had it meant whenever he was, it was before he…..’died’. And Steve wasn’t small, like many of Bucky’s memories suggested he’d been before the war….so, it was after Steve had saved him from Zola’s lab. So between the two of the worst things that had happened in his long life, and during World War Two. Bucky sighed. Well, it’d be difficult to find any period of his life that was particularly wonderful, so this would have to do.

 “Hiya, Sarge. You’re up. Feelin’ better?”

 Bucky startled, turning towards the voice. He frowned when he saw a large man with a weird moustache smiling at him. He….knew him. Bucky frowned, staring at the man, head tilted as he tried to recall the man.

 “You ‘kay, Jimmy?” the man asked, his smile faltering.

 Bucky paused. Jimmy? He didn’t remember anyone calling him that except-

 “Dugan,” Bucky stated aloud unintentionally, ecstatic that he’d remembered a name. He didn’t remember much else about the man, but names were a stepping stone. Steve’s name was what had broke his programming in the first place.

 The man, Dugan, raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah?”

 Bucky faltered under the man’s scrutinising gaze, unsure how to respond. Vadoma had been a stranger to him, sure, but a stranger who was aware of his screwed up past. This man, this….friend, knew nothing of that. It hadn’t happened yet for him to know about it. To Dugan, he was still the old Bucky, the one without all the baggage that being the Winter Soldier had brought. He didn’t know how to be that Bucky. That was his problem.

 “Sorry, just….tired,” he lied, smiling as he did, trying his best to seem like his old self. Before Dugan could debate that, Bucky looked around purposefully. “Where are the others?”

 “Morita and Monty are doing a perimeter check,” Dugan shrugged, before pointing to Bucky’s far right, “and those fat ol’ lumps are Gabe and Frenchie.”

 Bucky hadn’t noticed the full sleeping bags close to him, but now Dugan had pointed them out, he could hear the distinct breaths of the two men who slept.

 “But I’m guessing you’re more worried ‘bout where the captain is, right?” Dugan continued, huffing a laugh.

 Bucky nodded, because it was in parts true. Out of all the people here, Steve was the only one he really remembered. Dugan jabbed his thumb over his shoulder.

“Cap’s doin’ some drawing. Stupid idiot is near the edge of the perimeter. You’ll find him thataway.”

 Bucky wriggled out of his sleeping bag, and rose up off the ground, putting on a tight smile.

“Thank you, Dugan.”

 “Uh, no...problem,” Dugan replied, watching Bucky with a strange look that he couldn’t read.

 Bucky scuttled away before the conversation got any more awkward, distancing himself from the dead bonfire, following the vague directions towards Steve. The weight of his prosthesis was gone, replaced by his much lighter natural limb, so he had to adjust his gait, which was used to compensating for the heaviness of his left side. He hadn’t got it quite right by the time he saw Steve.

 The captain was sitting on a small boulder, drawing pad sitting on his knees, pencil darting across the page. Steve’s tongue was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, eyes focused on the paper and the graphite trail of his pencil’s dance. Bucky froze, a fleet of foggy memories crossing his mind, none of which lasted long enough for him to truly see. He shook his head. He needed a clear mind. He didn’t want his first conversation with Steve in almost 70 years to be drowned out by memories. He wanted to remember this. He took a deep breath, and continued forward.

 Bucky cleared his throat as he neared, not wanting to startle Steve and ruin the drawing. The captain looked up, giving Bucky a soft smile.

 “Hey, Buck. Feeling better? You were pretty out of it last night.”

 Bucky nodded, quietly looking at the drawing. It was of a woman, wonderfully and expertly shaded, with curly short hair and a kind, small smile. Even though it was in black and white, Bucky could see colour in the image: brown hair and eyes, and dark red lips. A name fluttered into his mind.

 “Peggy?” he murmured hesitantly.

 Steve smiled bashfully.

“Yeah….she’s, umm, a good subject.”

 Bucky shrugged absentmindedly, still studying the picture, trying to remember who ‘Peggy’ was. All that appeared was a red dress and an English accent. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Steve look at him in surprise.

“You’re not going to make fun of me?”

 “For drawing?” Bucky asked, confused. Did he used to do that?

 Steve looked bemused for a second, before laughing softly as he commenced sketching again.

“Nevermind.”

 Bucky sat down beside him, on the left so not to impede his drawing hand, and when Steve didn’t object, leaned close so to watch Steve draw and shade the woman. He didn’t see the drawing, but the woman it depicted, images of her face flickering in his head. The more he looked at it, the more he remembered about Agent Peggy Carter of the SSR. Bucky smiled when he recalled the pining looks Steve used to give her, and the subtle ones she returned, and their obliviousness of the fondness they shared for each other. It was a bittersweet memory, because the Steve who sat beside him didn’t know that the woman he loved would grow old without him. This Steve’s love for Peggy was not yet a tragedy. Bucky swallowed down a sob, turning away as he waited for Steve to finish.

 Moments later, he felt a nudge on his shoulder, and he managed not to flinch, turning to look at Steve. The captain was holding up the drawing, a sheepish, yet proud, smile on his face. He had done well, the drawing beautiful and detailed. Bucky had forgotten how well Steve could draw. Bucky noticed Steve’s signature at the bottom, and beside it, a small date: 5/8/44.

 May 8th, 1944. 71 years ago. Bucky let out a heavy, yet quiet breath. He could barely remember any of 1944. It was just a vague series of images that made up what he remembered of his time with the Howling Commandos and Steve during World War Two. All he could remember clearly was…..Steve drawing. Bucky eyed the edges of the other pages that were hidden under the drawing, wondering what memories had been transcribed in graphite. Maybe the images could help him remember.

 “Can I look at your other drawings?” he asked abruptly.

 Steve paused, uncertain, before nodding, holding out the pad to Bucky, who took it gingerly into his hands. He laid it flat on his lap, and flicked the pages back, studying the drawings, hoping some memories could be gleaned from them. There were many pictures of Peggy, and Bucky saw Steve blush every time one appeared. There was also a few cartoons, evidently drawn to humour the other men. Streets of a old city appeared more than once, depicting familiar images of places Bucky couldn’t recognise no matter how hard he tried. Bucky stilled when he finally reached a drawing of a face he knew too damn well.

 It was him, before he became the Winter Soldier. He stared at it intensely, eyes flickering across it, studying every detail. The hair was cut short, styled in a way that showcased high amounts of care. No phantoms of pain or death haunted the eyes, which were crinkled with a small smile that wasn’t hinder by any stubble. The drawing of him looked happy, as if he was quietly laughing at a joke that no one would remember. Bucky frowned at the distorted reflection of his face, staring in self loathing at the face both he and HYDRA had ruined.

 Steve noticed his expression.

“You don’t like it?”

 Bucky looked away shamefully, annoyed at himself for making Steve sound disappointed. He held the pad out to Steve.

“No...it’s great.”

 “It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Steve sighed as he took the drawing pad and studied his own drawing. “I can never get it right.”

 Bucky raised his hand to touch his hair, the drawing and Steve’s comment causing him to do so. He blinked in surprise when he felt the scruffy feeling of short hair instead of the oily tendrils who was used to. He felt the rest of his head, playing with the hair that no longer reached his chin. It felt nice. He looked back down to the drawing. His older self may have worn the face differently, but it was still the same face, now more so than ever. He was Bucky in all the ways that weren’t important. Even with his appearance, he was nothing like the Bucky in Steve’s graphite image. Bucky frown deepened.

 Steve laughed beside him, unaware of what truly troubled his friend.

“Don’t worry, Buck. The only reason I can never get it right is because you style it _so_ well.”

 Bucky tilted his head, recognising that tone of voice.

“Are you being sarcastic?”

 Steve smirked, and raised a hand to muss Bucky’s hair. It was a friendly gesture, one to amuse and annoy. The old Bucky would have been vaguely irritated, and probably would have retaliated, albeit with a smile, showing it was all in good humour. Bucky wanted to respond like that, like a normal human being, like a friend. He wanted to smile in exasperation, and playfully ruffle Steve’s hair in revenge. He wanted to do it so badly, that for a moment he let everything wash away so to enjoy this moment of normality; this moment between friends.

 Programming, however, kicked in, like a kneejerk reaction, and the Asset took control. His hand flew to Steve’s wrist, fingers constricting around the soft skin, and pushed it down harshly onto the rock on which they sat. The Asset didn’t hear any bones snap, testament to the invulnerability that the super serum had given to Steve, but the attack was merely to divert and contain the assailant, not harm. Steve, however, did let out a hiss of pain and recoiled, his strength allowing him to rip his arm from Asset’s incredibly tight grip. Steve looked at the Asset with pained confusion, the palm of the hand red with grazes and cuts.

 The Asset faltered when strange emotions scratched at his mind, and sliced at his resolve. Some part of him was telling him to stop, but he didn’t understand why. Why should he stop? Steve was an enemy. His mission.

  _(No, he’s your friend. Don’t hurt him.)_

 Friend? The Asset didn’t understand the concept. But he couldn’t deny the information, because he couldn’t make his limbs move to attack, stock still as he stared at Steve, head ringing painfully. He couldn’t make himself harm the man further. Steve looked so vulnerable, and the Asset couldn’t make himself exploit it. It just made his head hurt worse.

 A different moment of time clouded the Asset’s mind, of a mission he’d never completed. Steve had been there, face bloody and swollen as a metal fist slammed into it again and again, only stopping when a familiar phrase had been uttered.

  _("Cause I’m with you ‘till the end of the line”)_

Then the memory was gone, and Bucky blinked, programming receding back into the darkest recesses of his mind, the Asset disappearing and leaving him with the aftermath. Bucky looked down at the wound he had caused, and the man to which he had inflicted it, dread flooding his body. His throat tightened, as if it was attempting to choke him, and he breaths came and left in quick succession to compensate. He quickly lifted himself off the rock and retreated a few steps away, afraid to cause further harm.

 He hurt Steve. Again. And this Steve wasn’t like the future Steve. He hadn’t seen his friend die, and he hadn’t met the Winter Soldier. All he knew was the good Bucky, the sinless Bucky. Not a murderer, with a confirmed kill list that frightened even his handlers, or a man who hurt people around him without trying. All this Steve saw was his friend’s face carrying dark burdened eyes that weren’t his. He didn’t know they hid a soul programmed to kill.

 He ducked his head down, and held himself tightly.

“I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean to hurt you. It-Эт-Это была ошибка. Пожалуйста, прости меня.”

 He growled quietly at himself. He couldn’t even apologise correctly. Steve wasn’t his handler. He couldn’t understand Russian either. Bucky’s language often relapsed after an episode, or a strong memory, and it had caused many issues whilst he’d been on the run. He recalled one day, in the later months of 2014, after he’d had an intense memory about his metal arm being attached to his body, he’d spent the rest of the week unable to speak any English, despite his thoughts being in the language. That week had been difficult and confusing, and he’d been forced to remain silent so not to blow his cover as an American tourist.

 The sound of footsteps stole Bucky’s focus away from his thoughts, and he looked up to see Steve carefully approaching him, hands raised in surrender, one still red with blood. Steve had a troubled expression on his face, traces of confusion and fear, which made Bucky’s inside squirm. When there eyes met, Steve managed a tight smile.

“Bucky, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

 Bucky fidgeted under the captain’s wary gaze, but let him approach. His fingers rubbed the fabric of his shirt frantically to release the nervous energy that have replaced the programming. It also kept him from letting his mind float away, the softness of the fabric keeping him steady. Bucky didn’t want to make the situation worse than it already was. He was already so furious at himself. He’d been with Steve for less than an hour and he’d managed to hurt him. No matter what time the Winter Soldier was put in, he was a danger to everyone.

 Steve stopped just before him, still more than an arm's width away, giving him a contemplative look. Bucky couldn’t retain the eye contact, and he flicked his eyes away.

 “Just breathe, Buck. You’re not in the lab anymore. You’re going to be okay.”

 Bucky frowned in confusion, and tilted his head up to look back at Steve, who was trying his hardest to look nonthreatening. The captain looked uncertain, but Bucky noticed that underneath that, there was some familiarity, like he’d done this routine before. Bucky blinked in realisation. Steve must think he was having flashbacks of the lab. Had this happened before, with the old Bucky? He couldn’t recall much of his time during World War Two, but he definitely couldn’t remember ever having panic attacks or anything of the sort. Recently, yes, he’d had many. But his old self? He was confident, suave, unshakeable. Bucky was nothing like him. But if Steve thought the programming was no different than a panic attack, maybe the seeming similarity he shared with his old self would hide the deeper truths of his mental affliction. Maybe he could play along with Steve’s belief.

 Bucky nodded slowly.

“I’m okay.”

 Steve smiled slightly, relaxing .

“Yeah?”

 “Yeah. I’m sorry.” He gave a significant look to Steve's bloody hand.

 The captain raised his hand, and shrugged as he looked at it.

“Ah, it’s nothing. Had worse.”

 Bleeding face, swollen eye, bullet wounds. Bucky cringed at the images. He knew too well what ‘worse’ was, despite that fact this Steve probably having no thought of that worse being caused by his best friend. Steve smiled good heartedly, oblivious to Bucky’s uneasy thoughts.

 “Come on. I’ll take you back to camp. Get you some food. Then maybe you can have a lay down. Ah, ah, no arguments, Buck. You look like you barely slept a wink last night.”

 Bucky hadn’t made any move to argue, and he didn’t intend to, so he just shrugged noncommittally. An emotion flickered across Steve’s face, one that Bucky could have sworn was sadness. Steve turned away before Bucky could confirm it as such, the captain walking back to retrieve his drawing pad. Despite carefully handling the pad, some of the blood on his palm ended up in the corner of the picture of Bucky, the red staining the shaded folds and creases of the left sleeve.

 Steve managed to not get anymore on the drawing, closing it and pressing it between his right arm and torso and he returned to Bucky’s side. He only stopped for a moment, a look of hesitance as he eyed Bucky, before continuing forward. Bucky followed after without a word.

 He didn’t know what to say anyway.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Russian Translation:  
> "It was a mistake. Please, forgive me"


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took longer to edit than it did to write. Despite that, probably still a lot of errors. Please excuse them.
> 
> Anyway, lots of plot stuff (I don't know if I should define the 'mission' as the major plot because it's what the story is dependent on for progress, or the subplot because it's not the main focus of this story, so I'll just say it's mostly important) is introduced in this chapter. Just want to forewarn you: lots of things are probably not entirely historically accurate. I did a lot of studying for this fanfic, but I still might have missed some things that were occurring at the time and place this story is set. This story is based loosely around the events that happened during 1944 in Hungary, but obviously this is set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe, and therefore I can blame any inaccuracies on the fact that it's not the real WWII timeline (though many times in Modern History I've been tempted to mention HYDRA and the Howling Commandos in essays just for kicks, but I think my teachers wouldn't find it as awesome as I do). 
> 
> Also, in the end notes (it's there because it's related to something in this chapter and I don't want to spoil it), I've written a important message related to a decision I've made in relation to the historical events that will be involved in this story, so if you are so inclined, please read it.
> 
> Nevertheless, enjoy.

**8th of May, 1944**

**East of Nógrádszakál, Hungary**

“Hey Cap, hey S- what the hell happened to your arm?!” was Dugan’s greeting to them when they returned. The man looked alarmed, and his hand went to his his gun, wary eyes flitting across the horizon.

“I’m fine. Just a scratch,” Steve replied casually. Dugan’s hand left his gun, but he still didn’t look pleased.

“‘Just a scratch’?. You’re bleeding, knucklehead.”

“It’ll heal.”

He scoffed. “How did ya get that anyhow?”

“I..fell,” Steve answered. Even if he didn’t know what had happened, Bucky wouldn’t have been fooled. Steve was a terrible liar. Dugan raised an eyebrow, evidently not believing a word either. Bucky sighed, shoulders sagging a bit. He didn’t really want to admit what happened, but he knew that Dugan wouldn’t let up until Steve told the truth. Might as well finish it before an argument begins.

“It was me. I hurt Steve.”

Steve looked to him, a sad frown upon his face. Bucky assumed that meant Steve didn’t want him to tell Dugan what had actually happened. Nevertheless, it was too late to decide otherwise.

“What d’you mean ya did that? Why would  _ you _ do that?” Dugan asked incredulously, gesturing to Steve’s bleeding palm.

_ Because I was programmed to. Because I’m a danger to everyone. Because I’m a weapon, _ Bucky thought bitterly. He settled for a less heavy reply. Unlike Steve, he was an efficient liar.

“He startled me. I thought he was an enemy so I attacked. It was just a stupid accident.”

Dugan gave him a assessing look, like he was trying to figure out if her were lying. Bucky didn’t waver, and Dugan nodded, disbelief fleeing from his eyes. He huffed in acceptance, turning to Steve.

“You could’ve told me that, Cap. ‘I fell’. Ha! You’re a pathetic liar. C’mon, lemme patch that up.”

Steve went to argue, but Dugan gave him a hard, ‘don’t give me crap’ look, and so the captain sighed and followed the stockier man to the first aid kit. It was beside where the other men had been sleeping before. Bucky noticed the sleeping bags were empty, with both occupants no longer present. For now, the camp was empty save for him, Dugan and Steve.

“Where did-,” he paused, to recall the names that Dugan had told him, before hiding the insignificant silence with a quiet cough, making it appear like that was the reason he’d stopped before he continued as naturally as possible, “-Gabe and Frenchie go?”

Dugan lifted some bandages out of the first aid kit, and didn’t look up as he replied.

“I told them to get Morita and Monty. Didn’t want to delay this dunderhead’s mornin’ speech.”

Steve frowned indignantly, as he eyed the bandages.

“It’s not a speech. It’s a report.”

“Call it what ya will.”

The two began to argue quietly (“It  _ is  _ a report. I’ve got information to share. That’s what reports are for.” “Sure, sure, Captain America. I’m sure ya did  _ loads _ of reports while you were a showgirl.”), so Bucky retreated away wordlessly, towards the bonfire. Upon reaching it, he sunk onto the ground, feeling bone-tired. Soon, all the Howling Commandos would be present. He hoped they weren’t expecting him to be overly involved. He’d was already emotionally and socially exhausted by the morning’s events, and really didn’t think he could maintain much more conversation. He wasn’t capable of achieving the feat of small talk or casual communication very well any more. 70 years of programmed responses had left their mark, and he knew that was one thing that would never truly go away. It was something Steve and the Commandos would probably pick up on. By all accounts, the old Bucky was pretty sociable and outgoing. Trying now to imitate such a nature was torturous, and it wore him down to the bone. He recalled how HYDRA were displeased by his inability to assimilate naturally into social settings like parties and clubs when the need arose, rare though it was. HYDRA had expected him to fit like a glove in a role not suited to his abilities, and they had provided him with punishment when he had failed terribly. Idiots must’ve forgotten they’d been the ones to cause such a flaw in the first place. Every dehumanising act they did to him distanced him further and further from the people they wanted him to imitate and deceive. They made him an assassin, and assassins are made for the shadows, not for the light. 

He watched silently as Dugan wrapped up Steve’s hand, the latter grumbling about how it would heal in a day and that it was pointless. Bucky continued to watched the partially amusing exchange until the other men arrived, trudging through the forest was relative loudness. They must be in a secure area to allow for such carelessness, the soldier part of Bucky noted as he listened and observed their arrival. Bucky couldn’t name who was who, but they all seemed familiar. It was a niggling feeling that was close to being infuriating, though it was nothing on the screaming in his head that had ensued after Steve said those damn words that had broke the levee and flooded him with identity. That had hurt, but when the purer identity, with its morals and experiences, contaminated itself with the pollution of his guilty soul, that had been hell. Even now it stung. Just another permanent addition to his mind. He wished his memories could atleast try to copy that sense of stability, instead of being strange butterfly-like creatures that floated away when they felt like it. It was hard to capture them when they weren’t being compliant. Like right now. He knew these men’s names - he knew he saw them in that bloody exhibition - but the words had flitted away. Along with his knowledge about who these men were as people, and how each of them acted, and their stories, and experiences, and every other goddamn important that made up people’s identities. All those memories were absent, off on some adventure, leaving him with a greedy absence that took up way too much of his brain. So, without anything to help him connect to these men, he sat still, and merely observed them gather around quietly and sit down around the dead fire, not sure how to act like he knew them, yet wanting to learn.

If anyone noticed Steve’s newly bandaged arm, they didn’t mention it when he got up and cleared his throat, and stood a little taller (which was really not necessary given his already huge size) as he addressed them.

“Okay, everyone. Still no news on why exactly the S.S.R has sent us here, but we do have some new information relating to our current mission. Well, uh, information regarding information.”

“That’s helpful,” one of the men - Japanese in appearance - muttered audibly.

Steve continued, ignoring the comment.

“The S.S.R. radioed in early this morning during my watch. Said they had a informant who had some confidential intelligence relating to the mission; information that can’t send over radio. Told me the informant would be arriving within 24 hours. So, we should prepare for whoever it is, and stick close to this position. I think we’re out of the way of any HYDRA or Nazi soldiers, but that doesn’t mean we let our guard down, okay. Hungary at the moment is awash with them at the moment, and that means they could kill us easily if we aren’t prepared. We’ll set up a watch schedule just in case the informant doesn’t arrive ‘til late. I don’t think we’ll be here very long after that, so make sure your gear is packed and you're ready to leave immediately if we have to. So, ...just do what you want for a while until the informant arrives. We had a long walk yesterday so I think you guys deserves some rest. That’s all. As you were.”

“Bravo, Captain. Inspiring, don’t you think, guys?” Dugan applauded sarcastically, looking around to the others.

“ Oui, merveilleux. Je suis très inspiré,” Frenchie (Bucky assumed, given the dialect) agreed in the same tone. The others nodded with smirks, probably not understanding the words but recognising the intention. Bucky remained still, silent, unsure if he should join in. It didn’t seem fair on Steve. The captain sighed, his unharmed hand rubbing his face, annoyed and amused.

“Thanks for the support.” His eyes flickered to Bucky, an eyebrow raised. “Do you have any snide remarks to add, Buck?”

Bucky saw the Commandos look to him expectantly. He didn’t have anything to say against the captain, and he knew he had nothing that would satisfy their image of Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, so he just shook his head, adding a small smile for effect.

Steve seemed slightly surprised by the silent response, but it soon was replaced by a defiant smile as he looked to the rest of the men.

“Well, at least one of you has got my back. I’m surprised there hasn’t been a mutiny yet”

“Oh, you needn’t worry, Captain. We assure you no mutiny shall occur…..Yet,” one replied snidely, an English accent evident in his speech.

Steve rolled his eyes.

“All of you do something productive before I pull rank.”

Gasps all round.

“You wouldn’t,” Dugan said in mock fear.

“I would,” was the captain’s faux serious reply. 

“Sir, yes, sir. C’mon boys. Captain’s orders.”

The men rose, save for Bucky. He watched them wander off to their packs and do their individual activities. The dark skinned man grabbed a book (‘For Whom The Bell Tolls’ the title read) and sat against a tree, a relaxed smile growing on his face. The Englishman, the Japanese man (Morita was possibly his name, given it’s style, but Bucky didn’t want to assume just in case it wasn't) and Dugan grabbed their cigarette rations and took off into the forest to smoke them together in private. The final man, Frenchie, pulled out a small half written letter, and began scrawling looping French to add to the message, using his knees as a impromptu desk. Though Bucky could understand the language, he chose not to try to read it; it was probably a private letter to his lover, family or friends, and Bucky didn’t want to intrude.

Steve, who had remained standing where he was as he’d watched the others, sat down beside Bucky. The captain gave him a small, concerned smile.

“You sure you’re okay, buddy? You seem awfully quiet.”

Bucky went to nod, but realised that would affirm Steve’s belief.

“I’m okay, really. I just….don’t know how to spend the day.”

“Maybe you could follow my advice and get some shut-eye. How ‘bout it?”

Bucky tilted his head questioningly

“You don’t want me to complete any activities? You might need my help.”

“Trust me, we’ll be fine. I promise I won’t do anything reckless while you sleep.” Steve raised his hand, two fingers crossed. Bucky furrowed his brow.

“But-”

“No arguments, Buck. You need some rest. I promise I’ll wake you up if anything happens.”

“....I guess,” Bucky agreed hesitantly.

“Okay, pal. Go to sleep.”

Bucky hummed, in a way of agreement, and pushed himself off the ground, walking the short distance to his sleeping bag. He settle into it, carefully wrapping around him, using his right arm as a pillow; it was habit he’d gained due to his metal arm’s inability to be in an way comfortable for his head. His meagre attempt had minimal effect however. His body didn’t know how to relax, always tight with apprehension, always ready to fight or flee. He moaned softly in annoyance. Goddamn instincts. He closed his eyes, ignoring them as best as he could. But Steve was eliminating any chance of that occurring. Bucky could tell the man was observing him, because the captain hadn’t moved a step, and was insanely predictable in how much he cared for the old Bucky Barnes. Evidently, that fondness continued on into the future, and was what allowed Bucky to break free from the crippling restraints of HYDRA. Even so, Bucky was not thrilled by the idea of someone watching him as he slept, even if it were in a concerned way instead of a clinical way. It made discomfort rise in his stomach, and flickers of tests and depraved doctors snagged in his mind.

“You can go, Steve,” he intoned.

There was sounds of awkward shuffling, a throat being cleared and a murmured sorry before he finally heard Steve walk away. Then, it was almost silent. Of course, there were still noises. There was the sound of a pencil along paper (two it seemed; Steve must’ve begun drawing, and Frenchie still was writing his letter), and a page of a book being turned, the sound of birds and distant laughter. Bucky was okay with these. He didn't like complete silence anyway. He shifted until he was as comfortable as he could be, and then allowed his exhaustion to overcome him. The trip to the past seemed to have tired out his body, and so the moment he let it flood him, the effect was almost instant. His brain shut down, and he was asleep.

Vignettes of consciousness interrupted his sleep several times, all a different shade of daylight. He heard indistinct voices each time, merely catching bits and pieces of conversations that faded in and out like a badly tuned radio.

( _ “When’s that confidant gonna be here, huh? I’m bored. Dernier, blow something up for me.” _

_ “Je doute que le capitaine ne le permettrait.” _

_ “Uhh, I’ll take that as a yes?” _

_ “C'était un non, idiot. If you not understand that, I say no.” _

_ “You’re dull when you’re not blowing HYDRA sky high.”) _

_ (“Should I wake him up? He’s been sleeping for some time.” _

_ “No, leave him. He, uh, had a rough morning. And I don’t think he slept so well last night.” _

_ “One of his bad days?” _

_ “Yeah. He hasn’t had one for a while, but this one hit him real hard.” _

_ “He’s allowed to have hard days. He went through quite an ordeal.” _

_ “I know Gabe, it’s just...hard to see him like that. Just….let him sleep. He needs it.”) _

Bucky was too tired to listen more intentively when these voices interrupted the darkness, so he eventually allowed sleep to swallow him whole. It was a long time before he fell into a deep sleep. It didn’t last long though. The dreams didn’t even get the chance to haunt him.  

He woke up to hands shaking his shoulders. He sat up without hesitation, ready to fling the person who dared touch him, inject needles or implant things under his skin. He felt the pressure disappear from his shoulders, and his eyes stalked the arms to the person who they belonged to. Bucky relaxed when he recognised Steve, the late afternoon sun setting his golden hair aglow. Bucky noted that the late hour that was cast across the sky behind Steve meant he’d spent the whole day sleeping (his body definitely had been affected by the time travel; he never slept this long before). The captain didn’t seem angry at him for wasting precious hours, a smile unburdened by concern on his face.

“Sorry to wake you, but the others voted you as first watch for the night, so I need you up and ready.”

“That doesn’t seem fair,” Bucky observed matter of factly. 

“The unconscious can’t make conscience votes, sorry,” Steve laughed. 

Bucky smiled weakly at Steve’s quip, though not because he found it funny (he didn’t, but it seemed cruel to tell Steve that), but because Steve was trying his best to lift the mood. He didn’t want to ruin Steve’s happiness by denying the captain’s choice to share it. 

“No, it’s alright. I’m fine with the arrangement,” he said as amiably as possible.

“Your watch is ‘til 11, then it’s Falsworth’s shift. Oh, also heads up: the SSR agent hasn’t arrived yet so keep an eye out for them.”

“That is the intention of night watch, isn’t it?” Bucky asked. He’d never been made to do it as the Winter Soldier, as he normally worked alone, or with handlers standing by, but never with people he had to guard through the night. The concept was actually quite foreign to him, as he couldn't recall ever doing it, though by the sounds of it, he’d probably done it quite often during his war days. Still, it was good to ask so he knew exactly what he’d have to do.

Steve must have thought he was making a joke though, because he laughed, leaving Bucky to watch awkwardly, unsure if he should join in. He settled for a short, quiet chuckle, which was drowned out by Steve’s hearty laugh anyway. Steve concluded his laugh with an amused shake of his head.

“Smartass.”

Bucky frowned petulantly (he hadn’t intended to sound like a smartass), but didn’t reply. He pushed himself out of the sleeping bag, and stretched his limbs, flinching slightly with the surprise his left arm still invoked in him. He hid it best he could, continuing to stretch with an air of nonchalance. He noted with a grimace the stench emanating from his skin. Sadly, there wasn’t much he could do about it, so he ignored the issue. It wasn’t priority at the moment anyway. If he was to watch over the others, he’d need a good place to be able to observe the night’s events. He looked around, searching for a vantage point amongst the trees. His eyes fell upon a tall, sturdy looking tree, not to far from the campsite, which had a good arrangement of branches up the trunk that would allow him to easily climb it and make a nest. He concluded stretching, and began walking to the chosen tree.

“Wait, where are you going?” he heard Steve call out in confusion.   
  
“To climb a tree,” he answered simply, without looking back.

“Wait, what?....Uh, what about your gun? And don’t you want to eat?”

“Don’t need it. Not hungry,” Bucky replied simply.

“You sure? You haven’t eaten for a while.” It was true; he hadn’t eaten since he arrived in the past, and even before then, he hadn’t had much to eat for a few days. But he could go days without food, so it was somewhat unnecessary right now. 

“I’ll eat tomorrow. Goodnight.”   
  
“Oh, uh, okay. Night?” Steve called out awkwardly.

Bucky waved a hand to show he’d heard, before becoming totally focused on his new task. He reached the bottom of the tree. Before climbing, he relieved his bladder, knowing he wouldn’t be moving for quite some time, and that any distraction could be detrimental. Once done, he returned to getting to his destination. Without too much difficulty, he ascended up the trunk. His left arm didn't have the same strength that was available in his metal arm, but it was able to carry his weight well enough as he heaved himself up the branches. He reached a reasonable height, and stopped, situating himself upon the branch so to allow himself absolute view over his companions and the surrounding area. He looked down to Steve, who he could see was wrapping himself in his sleeping bag, his infamous shield lying right beside him, ready for any attack. The others did the same around him, tucking themselves into the comfort of their faux beds. The Commandos must have been busy whilst he slept through the day, for it was a relatively early to go to sleep. The sun had not yet set, a thin sliver remaining visible through the trees.

He watched it descend, and the darkness replace it, the light of the moon and stars perforating the dark coat of blue that covered the sky. The bonfire had been lit once more, to accompany nature’s lights, casting a gentle light upon the denizens of the campsite, hissing every so often and spitting little sparks that floated upwards like lonely earthbound stars that wanted to join their cousins in the sky. Eventually, all he could hear was the crackling of fire and the men’s deep breaths, with Steve’s being the loudest. Bucky wanted to throw a sock into the captain’s mouth and yell to him how he couldn’t hear a thing over his snoring, but that would give away his position to any nearby enemies, so he remained still and silent. Steve could be bait, if the need arise. 

Despite the incessant breathing, the night was lovely, and peaceful. The quarter moon’s wistful light was scattered upon the ground, the beams dancing with the gentle breeze that brushed at Bucky’s skin. War wasn’t all blood and bullets it seemed. Wherever they were was somewhere away from the reach of the enemy. Bucky didn’t lose focus despite this, scanning the surrounding area through the passing hours, his mind desensitised to the boring task by the multiple missions that had required him to remain alert for hours on end during his time with HYDRA. His vigilance did not go unrewarded.

He heard a distinct footstep, followed by another. The continued repetition formed the unmistakable sound of a person walking. Bucky raised himself up, looking around, his vantage point allowing for a greater distance to observe. It was far to his right that he saw a distant shadow hidden amongst the trees. It was walking with a purpose, and he felt instinct overcome him. He leapt from the branch, landing without a sound. He fell into a crouch and weaved through the trees, using the darker shadows to hide himself. He stilled himself behind a thick tree, beside the trajectory of the shadow’s path. The shadow continued towards the camp, it too quiet in its steps, the kind that was trained into a peron. It wasn’t as quiet as him, however. He had programming and experience that made him an superior adversary. The shadow had not acknowledged his presence, the night’s darkness an excellent cover, and when it passed him, it did not even glance at him. He leapt.

The shadow dodged, and he flew past. He swallowed his surprise, falling into a roll. Once he assumed a crouch position, he spun quickly on his heel and went for the enemy’s legs. The shadow kicked out, but he was prepared this time. He grabbed the limb and pulled it sharply towards him, intending for the other combatant to fall. Unfortunately, the opponent was well-trained. The shadow used the momentum brought about by the tugging of its limb to stab it's free knee hard into his chest. He involuntarily dropped the other leg and staggered backwards, air escaping briefly from his lungs, and the shadow used this opportunity to kick him down to the ground. He landed on the ground harshly, and hissed in pain. The target placed the responsible limb upon his torso, and he growled. He didn’t have his knives, or his guns, and so a projectile attack was out of the question. He’d have to find another way out of this position. He was the Soldier. He’d find an window. He smiled when he felt the pressure on his chest decrease hesitantly.

“Barn-?”

The voice never finished it’s query. He swiped his leg out and knocked the shadow down successfully, hearing the body meet the ground. He leapt up before it could raise itself back up into a defensive position, and pushed the shadow towards the ground. He grinned darkly, feeling a hint of satisfaction now the roles were reversed. He forced the hands down to the ground with his own (his left arm felt peculiar; maybe the shadow had damaged the metal) so the shadow wouldn’t be able to escape, absentmindedly noticing the thinness of the wrists, not at all like those of a male. This observation was proved further when the highly annoyed, yet evidently feminine voice, spoke out.

“What the hell are you’re doing, Sergeant?”

He froze. That was his rank. The shadow knew his rank. And the voice - English accent, adult female - was one he recognised. A flicker of regret rubbed away the Winter Soldier’s sadistic glee, and the shadows his mind had cast upon the figure fled, his programming along with them. An indignant and familiar face greeted him. Bucky’s hands withdrew hastily and he jumped off of the woman.

“Peggy? W-why are you here?” She wasn’t supposed to be here. What would she be doing here? There was…..a reason, wasn’t there? He had a feeling there was. Steve had told him. What was it?

“Who exactly were you expecting to deliver the information?” she replied, pushing herself off the ground, brushing off the dirt from her dark green jacket. She placed her hands on a leather bag that Bucky had not noticed beforehand (amongst a great many other things his programming saw as irrelevant), gripping it protectively. It miraculously had remained on her shoulder, despite her recent assault. The information she spoke of was undoubtedly within the satchel. That was when the reason she was here decided to return from its absentia in his mind: the S.S.R informant. 

Bucky cringed when that detail returned. 

“I forgot you were arriving, actually. I’m sorry I attacked you.”   
  
“Oh you needn’t apologise. I can handle myself in fight just fine, thank you. I wouldn’t have let you hurt me.”

Bucky nodded, relieved he’d not caused her (much) harm. He had too much blood on his hands already. He didn’t want Peggy’s. She looked past him, towards the camp.

“Should I be expecting anymore surprise attacks?”

“None that I am aware of.”

Peggy nodded when he gaze returned to him, before frowning.

“Did I hurt you?” she remarked, gesturing to his left arm.

Bucky furrowed his eyebrow, confused by the comment. He cast his eyes to left arm. It was trembling, despite the absence of pain. He scowled at his arm’s weakness. It was as if it was upset it had been made to hurt Peggy ( _ not my fault, arm) _ . It didn’t like doing the job his metal arm had been made to do. Bucky gripped the shaking hand in his right, forcing it to stop. It was great having his flesh arm, but it didn’t share the same stoicness of his prosthesis, and that wouldn’t be great for missions. He hoped it wouldn’t quiver when he needed to shoot a gun. Peggy was still eyeing his left arm. He gave her a small, reassuring smile.

“No. I’m just cold,” he lied. The autumn night was apparent enough in it’s vague warmth that his lie was evident, but she nodded nevertheless, not in the least fooled, but obviously understanding his silent request for her not to ask further. 

“Then we can proceed,” she remarked as she effortlessly strolled past him. It was almost as if she hadn’t just been attacked. Bucky followed along after her awkwardly.

It didn’t take long for Agent Carter to assert her presence once she arrived at the campsite, Bucky following along, feeling incredibly like a stray dog. He watched quietly as she spoke confidently to the sleeping men.

“Wake up, you lummoxes. I’d rather discuss this mission before I go to sleep.”

A few groans and incoherent mumbles was her answer. She rolled her eyes, and looked to Bucky.

“Are they always like this?”

Bucky blinked at the question, and floundered, unsuccessful in catching any of his butterfly memories to help answer. 

“I’m not sure. Probably? Yes?...I think?”

Peggy raised an eyebrow.

“Did I hit you in the head a little too hard?”

She would be aware she hadn’t given him a head injury. Bucky assumed that it was her way of saying ‘are you okay?’. 

“I’ll be fine.”

She nodded, before turning back to the dozing men, speaking more loudly.

“Is this how you welcome a lady after she’s travelled all day to help you lazy asses? My, my, what would the girls at home think when I tell them that the infamous 107th is made up of a bunch of sloths?”

That woke them up. The Commandos sat bolt upright, with a chorus of ‘Peggy!’ and a few blatant and inaccurate excuses for their lazy behaviour (“Hurt my ear the other day, can barely hear anything.” “I thought you were part of my dream...mmm, it was a good dream”). After yawning loudly, Steve smiled sheepishly.

“Agent Carter. I wasn’t told it’d be you bringing the information.”   


Peggy gave him a small smile, one Bucky recognised as that of fondness.

“Well, that is because I wished for it be a surprise.”

Steve cheeks reddened ever so slightly.

“So, umm, uh, what’s the...information?”

Peggy sat down upon her legs, and opened her satchel, pulling out a sealed manila folder, thickened ever so slightly with pages.

“I’ve yet to read it myself. The S.S.R told me only to open it when I arrived. You won’t be able to read it though, I’m afraid to say. I collected this from the Russians, and therefore the information will be written in Cyrillic, unfortunately. That’s why the S.S.R. sent me to collect and bring the information to you, seeing as I also double as a translator. And because I am a wonderful persuader.”

Gabe chuckled (Bucky finally managed to name the African American man, recognising the man’s voice from the conversation he’d overheard whilst he’d been half asleep).

“Well, if there were any French involved, I’ll be happy to translate their additions.”

“Moi aussi,” Dernier added.

Peggy provided a hint of a smile.

“If the issue arises, then I’ll be sure call upon your aid. Here it is gentleman: the information,” she said as she opened the folder, unwinding the string from the button and folding back the seal. She dug her hand into the sleeve and pulled out a collection of papers, a half dozen or more. She didn't hand any out, seeing as she was the only person in the small party who could read the writing. To her knowledge anyway.

“Would you like any help?” Bucky asked softly as he sat down beside her.

Peggy gave him a raised eyebrow.

“Not to sound rude, Sergeant, but I don’t believe you would be able to read this.”

Bucky felt a weird feeling force his mouth into a small smirk. He realised it was smugness as soon as he had finished speaking. 

“И почему вы верите это, агент?”

Everyone seemed to recoil in surprise, including Peggy, who blinked at his words. She recovered quickly.

“ Well, I’ll be damned. In that case, I suppose you can.”

She handed him a page, which from the looks of it seemed to be the information report, and he took it with a blank face, his smile having vanished at the realisation that he might have just made a huge mistake. The old Bucky Barnes couldn’t speak a word of Russian, and yet here he was, seemingly fluent. Steve might have not noticed his slip up early that morning, because in the context, Steve probably assumed the words were just gibberish spoken by his upset friend. This time, that circumstances could not lead anyone to assume anything other than the fact he’d spoken another language. Bucky couldn’t deny it now. It was a detail he’d have to hope wasn’t too suspicious. He could still hide his fluency in pretty much every major European language (and a few Asian and African dialects as well, but who was counting). That was a detail that would definitely reveal him as an imposter. Most people weren’t fluent in almost 30 languages. Bucky felt a memory murmur at him that only a Winter Soldier could have such skills, and that the multilinguality wasn’t to communicate, but to assimilate. He shook the foggy recollection off.

He looked to his page, ignoring the shocked stares of the other Commandos. They’d probably wanted to talk about his ability to speak fluent Russian, but for now, he needed to focus on this mission. One which he had no idea about. That is what happens when you accidentally steal the body of your younger self during an active mission. His eyes skimmed over the Cyrillic, his mind automatically translating it. A hint of dread tickled menacingly under his skin as he read it. He read the report again, because he felt he needed to. Because he wanted to make sure he was reading it right, that the words were being processed correctly in his broken mind. He frowned as he read the words for a second time, feeling the burden of knowledge darken the ink the words were printed in. He knew what the report was detailing. It was a part of the war he’d never had to witness, saved by his own intimate hell. It was a shadow of history he never had been consumed by, or been the cause of, like so many of history’s darknesses were. His grip tightened on the page, and the accompanying creak of the paper brought him out of his bitter stupor. He realised people were calling his name.

He looked up, and was greeted by a group of concerned faces. How long had he been staring at the page? A long time, it seemed, for Peggy was on her third page. He could see a timetable on it, but he wasn’t feeling obliged to mentally translate what was printed in the boxes. He cast his eyes away, so he didn't have to meet the others’ eyes.

“I’m sorry. It’s just...hard to read.” He shook his head in frustration, amending himself quickly before someone misinterpreted him. “Uh, not because it’s in Russian. It’s just…..not nice.” Understatement, but it was the best he could manage. 

“Well, uh, could you tell us what it says?” someone asked. Bucky couldn’t commit himself to figure out who.

Bucky sighed, and then nodded mutely. He turned his head back to the page, to read the words that held so much that only he could understand the profound atrocity of. He read it flatly, adopting the voice of the Winter Soldier, so the others wouldn't hear the pain his own retrospective knowledge brought.

“Prior to the U.S.S.R.’s agreement to align itself with the Strategic Scientific Reserve in the task of abolishing the German control over Hungary, covert missions had been made to determine weaknesses and infiltrate the Axis forces. An unusual occurrence was discovered during these missions: since Germany’s occupation of Hungary, there has been an increase of railway transport out of the country, towards the German-held nations. Thus, an investigation into this was started, with special focus on the cargo, and why it was being exported. It was hoped there would be a complementary process of importation that could be exploited to allow operatives into the depths of the Hungary, and help with the annexation of Ally influence within Hungary. 

 “The trains have been discovered not to be holding edible or useable resources, but human beings. Hundreds have been transported through this form of exportation. It can be assumed that the exported persons are unwilling subjects, due to the witnessed mistreatments performed upon them, and their degraded physical states. Amongst these numbers of transported persons is a high percentage of Jews and Gypsies. Those involved in the investigation were unable to obtain any of these persons, or query them for why the action was taking place, due to the high amounts of Nazi soldiers guarding the railcars. No HYDRA soldiers have been sighted amongst the enemy numbers, and thus it can be concluded they are not involved in the process. As of yet, no action has been taken to discover the end destination of these trains, as they travel far into enemy territory, and any operation would be too difficult and costly.

“The information within this document is to be shared and seen only by the chosen agents involved with the investigation, the following attempts to liberate those being exported and the destruction of the activity, upon or following control of Hungary being gained. Previous and estimated future train schedules can be found within this document, along with the tracks on which these illicit activities have been taking place. Any new information discovered by the Strategic Scientific Reserve must be shared once the mission is completed so to ensure no future related activities occur.”

 Bucky concluded, and sagged. He could hear the others reacting in accordance to the news. But none of them knew the true demons of this war like he did. None of them knew the horrors of the Holocaust.

 Not yet anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation (via Google Translate so please be aware they may be wrong). 
> 
> Oui, merveilleux. Je suis très inspiré -Yes, wonderful. I am very inspired.  
> Je doute que le capitaine ne le permettait - I doubt the captain would allow it.  
> C'était un non, idiot - It was a no, idiot.  
> Moi aussi - Me too.  
> И почему вы верите это, агент? - And why do you believe that, agent?
> 
> THE IMPORTANT MESSAGE I MENTIONED IN THE BEGINNING NOTES THAT I WOULD LIKE YOU TO READ  
> Though this story will be related to the Holocaust, I will not be depicting any graphic scenes involving the camps and the methods used to exterminate those imprisoned in them. I've chosen to stick with just depicting those about to be exported to the camps via train, which in itself was still a terrible violation of many human rights. Not only do I think that the story is set too early in the war to thoroughly involve the Holocaust (the first camp to be discovered happened in July 1944, which is two months after the setting of the story), I also really don't want to make this story overly depressing ( though, no doubt I'll manage to make it just that, won't I). The main goal of this story is to explore Bucky's character, his relationships, and his interactions with Steve, Peggy and the Howling Commandos. I hope that my decision to not thoroughly explore the events of the Holocaust won't be seen as me disregarding the terrible things that happened, and that it will not impede your enjoyment of my story.  
> Okay, that's the end of my important message. You're free to go. :)
> 
> Until next chapter, farewell my friends.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have joined the legion of writers who have looked up questionable and highly suspicious Google searches. Top three, in no particular order, are:  
> -'If you crush someone's throat with your foot would they die straight away?'  
> -'How hard is it to kill someone by snapping their neck?'  
> -'Suffocation techniques'
> 
> You'll find out why. Sorry, if despite the research, the fight scene (I would say spoiler but the inclusion of those searches make it pretty evident I was including one) feels unrealistic. Can't say I've got any personal experience to go off. Nevertheless, please enjoy.

**8th of May, 1944**

**East of Nógrádszakál, Hungary**

Bucky handed the report to Peggy, and she accepted it with a pinched face. He was happy to be rid of it, and with his hands now free of the wretched document, he hugged him limbs close to his body, in an attempt to stifle the trembling that had plagued his body. He wanted to ignore the world and forget the time in which he was.

“Well….that is definitely worse that what I was expecting,” Morita muttered sullenly.

“You're telling me,” Dugan grumbled. “Bloody hell.”

Meanwhile, Steve looked shocked.

“How...how could they do that? How could they treat people like cargo? Like their objects? That’s….That’s -,” he shook his head in exasperation, unable to finish.

“Screwed up?” Falsworth supplied. The other men nodded in agreement.

When a heavy silence fell over the campsite, and burdened the air with it’s melancholy, it was Peggy who broke it, speaking with determination.

“It is unfortunate what is happening, yes, I agree, but we mustn’t succumb to our sorrows. If we do, then what is in that report won’t come to an end. It will continue and many more shall be forcefully taken away to wherever it is the Nazis are sending them, which I doubt is a place one would be willing to go. You’re team was chosen for it’s effectiveness and success rate. This shall not be the mission where that is questioned. These people need our help, and they shall receive it. Now, men, until then, we must focus. Can you do that?”

The pregnant pause that followed didn’t last very long.

“Well, when you say it like that, what are we waiting for,” Dugan cheered. The other’s cheered with him. Bucky didn’t join in, observing their faint happiness with harrowed eyes. 

“The train,” Peggy replied simply, looking to her papers.

The cheers faded away awkwardly.

“Uh, when’s that exactly?” Dugan asked, less enthusiastically than before, “because seriously, if ya going to do an inspiring speech, it should be just before the heat of battle.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind, she replied, a hint of amusement in her tone. She pointed to one of the timetables. “It says here the next train to pass along the tracks close to this location is Thursday, but that is merely an estimation. Nevertheless, that gives us a little over two days to prepare. Then it shall be a waiting game.”

Whilst the others began discussing, Bucky frowned. Would he still be here, in the past, when that deadline came around? Would he be returned to his time by then, or, in the worse case scenario, during the inevitable combat? How long was he going to be stuck here for?

It’s not that he didn’t like it in the past, and being with his friends, but he didn’t belong here. So far, he’d done more harm than good, and his friends could tell he was acting different. That was the final proof he needed to know how different he was to the old Bucky that he couldn’t even pretend to be him very well. If he couldn’t be the person he had been - who he was born as, grew up as, lived as - then what did that make him? He was a ghost trapped in a body. At least in the future, the person he once was had died 70 years before. Right now, he was an imposter, a replacement.

He shouldn’t be here, he concluded. He shouldn’t be here pretending like everything was the same, like everything was the way it was. He was a hindrance. The Howling Commandos needed the real Bucky. Especially Steve. The captain needed his friend most of all. Bucky was merely stealing time Steve could be spending with his past self, which was slowly fading away as the Fall neared. Steve deserved every minute with the original Bucky, for the world knew that when they finally reunited in the future, nothing would be as it was. Bucky needed Vadoma to fix this. This trip to the past wasn’t helping anymore.

He needed to contact her somehow. The specifics, however, weren’t something he was aware of. But there must be a way to. She wouldn’t send him in the past without a way back. Would she? From what he recalled from science fiction books he’d read in his youth, time was a delicate thing, and any action could alter the future. So far, he was pretty sure he hadn’t done anything that would wreck what was to be. But Bucky knew that if he stayed here for an extended stay, he would probably damage time in a way, inadvertently or otherwise. Vadoma was probably aware of that. There must be some way back. He’d have to figure it out. First, though, he needed to get away from the others. He needed to alone for this.

He leaned over to Steve.

“I’m going to go check the perimeter. Is that okay?”

Steve paused in his discussion, and looked at Bucky with a small smile.

“‘Course. Come get us if you spot anything.”

Bucky nodded, though he knew that if he figured out a way to reach Vadoma, his promise would be pointless on his behalf. He pushed himself off the ground, and went to leave, but paused before he’d even taken a step. If this worked, this would be the last time he would see Steve for awhile. He’d be back to wandering in the 21st Century, alone and out of Steve’s life. It was for the best. Evidently he wasn’t ready to be the man Steve knew him to be. Still, he would miss being with Steve again. One day, soon, maybe they’d be reunited. For now, Steve deserved the farewell he never got.

“Goodbye, Steve,” he said solemnly. Steve quirked his eyebrows his confusion at the serious tone, and went to speak.

Bucky turned and walked away before he got Steve’s reply. He didn’t look back. He didn’t want to worry Steve with a long goodbye. In a way, he wasn’t really leaving. The old Bucky would have his body back. He could see the reunion in his mind: his old self returning, and quelling the concern of the others with his natural charm and wit, and his sincere, unburdened smiles. The others would be pleased, hell, relieved even, to have the Bucky they really wanted here returned to them. They wouldn’t have to worry about that Bucky. They wouldn’t have to deal with the possibility of him losing himself in memories, or hindering them through the lack thereof. They would be free of the chains of concern, fear and dread that being around the Winter Soldier caused them.

Steve would be happy; that’s all that matters.

Bucky wandered until he could no longer hear the faint murmurs of his friends. If he couldn’t hear them, then they wouldn’t be able to hear him. Upon stopping, he stood awkwardly for a few minutes, unsure of how to approach communicating with Vadoma. Was she connected to him somehow? Was she watching him? Should he yell? Or would it be some kind of bonkers telepathic form of communication?

Bucky sighed; he really missed the simpler times when aliens didn’t invade the earth, he wasn’t a 98 year old amnesiac assassin, and he didn’t have to deal with the strangeness that was time travel physics. Sure, he could barely remember when things were simple, but it was a nice idea to believe that he once was as normal as everyone else.

With no other option he could think of, Bucky closed his eyes.

_Vadoma, can you...hear me? If you can….I want to go….I want to come back to the present. Please,_ he thought, feeling both ridiculous and horribly vulnerable. If she could hear him like this, could she hear every thought in his mind? He shuddered at the notion of someone seeing the hell inside of his head. He didn’t wish that upon anybody. A moment passed before Bucky opened his eyes cautiously. He was still in the forest, and it was as quiet as ever, save for the night creatures that wandered, and the sighs of the trees in the wind. Bucky licked his lips, and took a steady breath, before he tried again.

“Vadoma?” he tried aloud, pausing for only a moment in case of reply, before continuing tentatively, “I don’t know if your powers can let you hear me, but, please, if they do, can you take me back?....I don’t want to be here anymore. I….I’m not that Bucky anymore. I don’t think I ever will be. I just…..Steve doesn’t need me as I am now. I’m...hurting him by being here. I don’t belong here anymore. I’ll find another way to get my memories back. Just…..bring me back, please.”

He held his breath, waiting, willing, needing, some kind of response. Only the silence answered, for it was his only witness amongst the forest. Vadoma couldn’t hear him. That, or she just didn’t care.

Bucky sunk to ground wearily, wiping furiously at the tears that had unwillingly formed in his eyes. He was stuck. He was stuck, and Vadoma wasn’t there to bring him back. He should’ve known this would not end well. Why did he trust a stranger?! Because of some stupid note that he may or may not have written. He’d been so stupid. So, so stupid. Now he was trapped in the final year of his younger self’s life, with friends he had forgotten and a man he only knew in foggy memories.

What was he going to do? He couldn’t go back, he just couldn’t. He didn’t want to pretend, to fake his own actions and imitate a man that only he grieved. The Howling Commandos never saw him fall, never saw him break, never saw him kill innocents. All they had ever seen was Sergeant Barnes, loyal soldier and friend.

All they ever saw was the man who was not yet a living weapon, shaped to be compliant and efficient. A living weapon who was now broken beyond repair, and who could barely perform the ‘living’ part.

Bucky wanted to cry, to scream, to do something, anything but succumb to the suffocating thoughts of his mind.

Unfortunately, the world wouldn’t allow even that, for the sound of feet upon leaves interrupted the quiet of the night.

Bucky snapped his head towards the footsteps. There was several different sets, soft, but distinguishable as human. And they weren’t coming from the camp. A sliver of dread embedded itself in Bucky’s heart. Enemies. Instinct drove Bucky to spring up quietly from the ground and into a defence position, right hand hovering over the knives he no longer had, left arm attempting to shift metallic plates that didn’t exist. The footsteps were to his right, so they would pass by him without intervention, but from the sound of them, they were heading towards the camp site. He knew the others were capable, but it would best to stop the intruders before any injury could be incurred due to his disregard of the threat. He couldn’t live with himself if one of them died because of him.

With a heavy sigh, he advanced towards the footsteps. He reused his earlier method of using the shadows to approach undetected. Eventually, he reached the group who were creating the noise, but remained outside of their view, crouched low and deep in the shadows. Bucky’s eyes narrowed as he assessed them. Four in total, all in German uniform, and each holding a StG 44. It was some kind of a clearing patrol, he concluded. They looked slightly unfocused, and were louder than they should have been, as if they believed they were safe within their captured territory. Bucky would have smiled if he felt like it. What a bunch of amateurs.

Still, four against one was difficult, especially when the four each had a weapon. Then again, he had been made into a weapon, refined again and again. They stood no chance.

He slowed his breathing, and coiled his fists in preparation, wishing he had his weaponry. He knew he could do it, but he was unsure if he would be able to achieve this without receiving any injuries. He wasn’t sure what would happen if he died here. It was a paradox he really didn’t want to wrap his head around right now.

His programming scratched eagerly at his mind, begging to take over. He returned his gaze to the four soldiers, assessing the situation once again. He could take them, but without the Winter Soldier’s mindset, he would be less efficient. He sighed quietly. He hated giving in to his worst self, because for so long it was his _only_ self, but strategically it was the best option. If he was stuck in the past, then it would be best to exploit his superior abilities. He couldn’t be the Bucky his friends knew, but he could protect them. Even if it meant killing. He disliked killing; he’d done too much of it, but they couldn’t deal with having numerous hostages they didn’t even need. It was better to be rid of the witnesses. The Winter Soldier could do that.  Bucky just hoped he wouldn’t drown in the programming, and suffocate in the blank nothingness. He couldn’t let that happen. Just for the fight, just for the soldiers, he repeated, hoping it would stick, and that the Asset would stop when he needed to. With one final, deep breath, Bucky allowed the programming to snake through his mind. He felt it twist itself around his nature, his morals, his memories, and steadily amputate them from his base self. He repeated the chant one final time before succumbed to cold emptiness.

The Asset looked up, and watched the soldiers pass him with a cold gaze, analysing them. His eyes latched onto the straggler of the group, who was humming a German song under his breath. The Asset nearly sneered at the incompetence, but ignored the impulse to do so. The target would be his first victim.

He shifted out of the shadows and joined the line, imitating the straggler’s footsteps as he approached. None glanced back at their new member, completely unaware. The Asset was the perfect assassin, and so was completely unperturbed by their naivety. His hands twitched in anticipation, the familiar whir strangely absent. He ignored the incongruent detail. It was not important. Without hesitation, he flung his hands forward, wrapping his left arm around the stragglers throat, the other hand pushing the head down. The straggler lurched under the choke hold, but soon went faint. The Asset did not allow him to fall from his grasp, holding the unconscious man’s body in front of his own. The man had not be quiet in his struggles, however, and the other three turned, raising their guns.

One fired on instinct, the shot loud in the quiet of the night. _(Idiot)._ The unconscious soldier jerked when the bullet met his flesh, acting as an unwilling shield for the Asset. The soldier who shot froze in horror, realising his mistake as he watched blood stain the other man’s abdomen. The other two flicked their gaze at the offender for a moment in accusation, before glaring at the Asset, their fingers waiting, ready to pull the trigger. The Asset eyed each of them, watching to see how they would retaliate. He was surprised when the middle one spoke.

“Kapitulation! Du bist unbewaffnet. Es gibt nur einen von euch. Es ist Ihre beste option,” the man ordered, though he didn’t hold the same power in his tone as the Asset was used to. The Asset knew a leader when he saw it, and this man was no leader. It was evident that all of these men lacked real experience. It gave him quite the advantage.

The Asset relaxed his grip on his hostage, and the others seemed to calm down slightly at his apparent surrender, their guns lowering. The Asset’s almost sighed at the foolishness of these soldiers as he shoved the hostage towards the one who had given the order. The man could only gasp in surprise as he was knocked down by the other, the two bodies falling to the forest floor clumsily. The two standing men paused only to watch in shock as their teammate fell, but recovered quickly.

Just not quick enough.

The Asset grabbed onto the left man’s gun and ripped it from his grip, which simultaneously pulled the man forward as he tried to keep his tenuous hold on the weapon. The Asset’s fist met the man’s chin, and man fell back, sans rifle. The same gun delivered the bullet that sent him to the ground, a dark wound growing in the middle of his forehead. All this happened in a matter of seconds. Time was irrelevant to the Asset. He was fast, and not even time could keep up. He quickly gazed around his dark theatre, taking in the state of each of his toys.

One trapped. One standing. One wounded. One dead. _(Another nameless soul to add to the list.)_ So far, so good. The standing man’s gun was still in the process of aiming at the Asset. He didn’t allow the bullet to find it’s target. He hurled his own rifle the man, into the trajectory of the oncoming bullet. It was different from throwing a knife, but he was precise, and he knew before the bullet shot out of the barrel that it would not hit him. The bullet meant for him found the rifle instead, a clash of metal on metal screaming out into the air. The bullet bounced off and flew adrift into the night, and the rifle entered a frantic twirl as it continued toward the man, slightly slower and at an odder angle than before. The man managed to dodge out of the rifle’s way. It was a distraction at best. This was all the Asset needed.

He charged forward and before he reached the man, he crouched and spun, his leg slamming into the man’s. The man fell, swearing in German as he did. He fumbled with his gun, trying to aim at the Asset. Too slow, always too slow. The Asset twirled through the air elegantly and landed a heavy kick to the man’s throat, heel crushing the air ways harshly. The twang of a bone snapping accompanied the assault. Blood drooled from the man’s mouth. He was dead before he could even scream.

The Asset kneeled down and pulled the gun from the man’s slack grip, and strode over to the final two men. The ‘leader’ was still struggling under the wounded man’s weight, his attempts to push the man off limited by his inability to move freely, but his frantic movements increased exponentially as the Asset approached. Fear, he concluded. The man was scared, desperate to escape from under the unconscious man.

The victim’s fear didn’t make the Asset hesitate. It meant nothing to him. Only when the mission was complete would he stop. _(Then what?)_

He stopped over the man, observing the man with an apathetic gaze.

“Bitte, bitte, töte mich nicht,“ the man pleaded, though without tears. The Asset didn’t care if he cried or not. He didn’t have sympathy for his victims. It would the man’s final dignity that he didn’t weep in the face of death.

The Asset raised his gun, and aimed it at the man’s head. The man closed his eyes in defeat, still murmuring his pleas desperately, awaiting his execution.

“BUCKY STOP!”

The Asset paused at the noise, for only a moment. Then he disregarded it. No distractions. He pulled the trigger, and the shot silenced the pleading man, and the voice. Then it was heavy silence. One more to go. The unconscious man would be easy to kill. No pleading, no fight. Just a bullet to finalise his rest. He tilted his gun towards the last man’s forehead, fingers above the trigger. He ignored at how much the gun shivered in his hands. He would analyse the issue after he was done. He had a job to do. _(Then this can stop. The mission will be done.)_

“NO! BUCKY!”

The Asset trained his eyes on the new target, feeling a strange sense of relief for the intrusion, along with an even more perceivable irritation. The Asset bit the inside of his mouth, using the pain to ignore the emotions he wasn’t allowed to have. With the warm taste of metal in his mouth, he realigned his focus to the target. The soldier looked different from the others. Different hair, different eyes, different uniform. Gold and blue and red and white. The round shield he held depicted a similar theme. The colours didn’t matter however. Just like every target, it’d all be red in the end.

The Asset went to aim his gun, but thought against it. Some instinct told him to find a different, more intimate means of killing _(no, no, no, no)_. He cast the rifle aside.

The man seemed to relax at the sight of the forgotten weapon, and he lowered his shield, walking towards the Asset slowly, the shield lowering all the more as he approached. The Asset watched in satisfaction. They should never let their guard down. Especially when the greatest weapon remained in play. The man stopped a few feet away from him. The Asset remained still, hoping by doing so the man would relax entirely. The man look troubled. When he spoke, his voice wavered with poignant emotion.

“I heard a gunshot….I...I thought you’d got hurt. Bucky…..please tell me you did this in self defense.”

The man’s eyes flickered to the dead bodies, and the Asset followed unconsciously followed the movement. The dead soldiers were covered in their blood, vacant eyes staring at the sky, as if in admiration. The Asset felt a tinge of regret in his chest. Just a tinge. Nothing that would cause him to stray from mission parameters.

He looked at the blond haired soldier. His shield was all but forgotten in his arms.

Perfect.

The Asset surged forward, left hand ready to provide the killing blow. Just as it was designed to.

The man recoiled in surprise, his shield flying up to protect his upper body. The Asset fist stuttered in surprise at the quick movement. But he was quick too, and he changed his offensive method, and went for the man’s unprotected legs instead, kicking the man’s kneecap. It didn’t break, but the man hissed in pain nevertheless. The shield faltered, just slightly, but enough for the face to become open to attack. Exploiting this, the Asset swung a backhand to the man’s temple. The man recovered quickly from the attack, and shoved his shield outwards, hitting the Asset hard in the chest. He stumbled back, but he righted himself before he fell.

The Asset narrowed his eyes. This man was definitely better trained than the others, he noted. It would take longer to bring this one down. The Asset growled in irritation, feeling the blood in his mouth trickle lazily from his lips. The man didn’t look to pleased either. He looked….sad? Confused? Worried? Scared? Maybe all. Emotions didn’t matter _(yes they do)_ . The handlers didn’t care for _(his)_ emotions. Why then should he care? The strange, sad eyes watched him, and the mouth fell into a deep frown to complement them. The Asset couldn’t understand why the target was sad. _(It’s because of you)_. Did he know he was going to die?

“Bucky, it’s me,” the man murmured gently. He lowered his shield more, face cleansed of any anger or aggression. Just pure and complex melancholy. He was sad...because of the Asset?

The Asset didn’t intend to tilt his head, but he did. He was confused, but he shouldn’t have allowed himself to show it. The handlers didn’t like that. (“ _He’s unstable.”)_

They never liked it. _(“Wipe him.”)_

“It’s me. It’s Steve,” the man continued. “Bucky, please tell me you know who I am.”

_(“I knew him.”)_

The Asset shook his head, trying to clear away the bad thoughts. A strange pain began to make itself known in his head. He glared at the man that he knew was causing it.

“You are nothing more than my mission,” he snarled, curling his hands into tight fists.

The man blinked in shock.

“Bucky?....” he whispered, as if the word ( _name?)_ was all he could manage to say.

_(“Please don’t make me do this.”)_

The Asset shook his head more vigorously. He wanted the voice in his head to stop talking. The thoughts hurt.

“Shut up,” he hissed.

His head erupted in a symphony of agony, images exploding in his mind. A bustling city, a small sandy haired boy, a dead genius and his wife, sky ships plunging to their deaths. The Asset whimpered unwillingly as the pictures clawed harshly at his mind.

“Please,” he added desperately. He hated the fact he couldn’t control the trembles that racked his body. What was wrong with him?

Something like hope flickered in the man’s eyes. The shield dropped from his hand as he approached _(it fell, and then he fell into the river with it)_. The Asset stepped back involuntarily. Not for fear of the man. Fear of something else. Fear of pain? Causing it? Or receiving it? The man continued towards him, slow and calm.

“I’m not your enemy. You know me.”

_(“No I d-”......this has happened before)._

The Asset’s hand flew to his forehead. Rip the thoughts out. Before the handler’s do. Rip them out. They’ll hurt you more if you don’t. You’re malfunctioning. Shut up! _(there’s no handlers anymore)._

_(Give in. The mission’s over.)_

The Asset breathed out raggedly as he sunk to the ground. The pain in his head was immense, unforgiving. Digging, tearing, mauling. He didn’t like it.

“Make it stop.”

The man ( _captain_ ) crouched in front of him, the hope gone in favour of concern again.

“Make what stop?”

“MAKE IT STOP!” he barked, angry that the man didn’t understand. He needed the pain to be gone.

“I can’t if you don’t tell me, Bucky,” the man asserted, the furrow of worry present between his brows deepening, as if he was the one in pain. The Asset felt a need to comfort the man, to assure him everything was alright, that it’d be okay. That made the Asset’s head hurt even more.

The Asset’s left arm _(not metal not metal why isn’t it metal something’s wrong)_ flew to the man’s throat, and he lifted him off the ground ( _still strong still unnatural what did they do to me I don’t know I don’t know)_ as he stood up. The man struggled in surprise, hands clawing at the one around his throat, legs moving like those of a dying insect. The Asset bared his reddened teeth.

“What did you do?! Why does it hurt?! Why won’t it stop?!”

If the man had an answer, he couldn’t provide it. His startled eyes stared into the Assets, searching for _(his friend)_ something. The blues eyes were so familiar. Why were they fami-?!. The Asset grip loosened when a flare of thoughts bled out of the growing wounds in his mind.

_(“The little guy from Brooklyn who was too dumb to run away from a fight….)_

_(“Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”)_

_(“No! Not without you!”)_

_("He’s not dead. You’re lying. Steve isn’t dead!”)_

_("I'm sorry, Steve. I....can't fight anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.")_

_(_ “ _You’re my mission!”)_

_(....I’m following him.”)_

He dropped the man as he stumbled back. No. He dropped his….friend, who fell to the ground and began sputtering dry coughs as he regained air _(breathe, don’t die on me you idiot, we’re still got so much to do, don’t give up now just because your lungs are, you’re stronger than that)._ The Asset watched, his own breaths shallow.

The man, the captain, the friend, gazed up at the Asset _(not a object, not a tool, not a weapon)_ , but said nothing. Just watched. Still searching.

The Asset looked away, towards the dead men, and the final one whom he had not killed. Blood and faeces filled the air with their stench. The smell of death. It wrapped around his skin tightly, suffocating him, reminding him of innocents he’d slain long before ( _I remember, I remember)_ , the murders he committed.

And the one man who eluded it.

Yet again.

He returned his gaze to that man, and felt a glimmer of happiness that he was alive, that he was okay. The Asset froze in realisation that the pain wasn’t there to destroy him; it was there to stop him from destroying himself. From destroying the one person who would die for him. He closed his eyes, feeling the scattered memories of a different life float at the rims of his mind. He knew instinctively that pain of a different kind lay within those memories, but to be absent from them hurt all the more.

Just for the fight, just for the soldiers, a forgotten whisper assured. The Asset knew what that meant. The mission was over. He didn’t need to kill, to suffer anymore. He could let go. He could stop. The Asset relaxed his body, hands falling to his sides loosely. He didn’t have to fight. He knew that now. He finally gave in to the pain.

It faded away like dust the moment he accepted it. The memories, scattered and ruined though they were, returned to their rightful place. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer just the Asset, and the man before him was no longer a target.

“Steve,” Bucky murmured softly. It wasn’t a question. Just a plain statement that was so much more than just that. It was an apology, a reply, an acknowledgement. It was everything he couldn’t manage yet to put in words.

Steve smiled, strained, weak, but a smile nevertheless. He went to speak, but faltered when something behind Bucky startled him.

Bucky didn’t manage to find out what it was before he felt an intense, external pain at the back of his head. He staggered, a blinding white burning his vision. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough Translations (à la Google Translation, so please excuse the probability of inaccuracy):  
> Kapitulation! Du bist unbewaffnet. Es gibt nur einen von euch. Es ist Ihre beste option -  
> Surrender! You are unarmed. There is only one of you. It is your best option  
> Bitte, bitte, töte mich nicht - Please, please, don't kill me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally had some happiness in it.  
> Yeah, 'originally' being the key term. Sorry in advance. This was a hard chapter to write, and this is the best I could come up with.
> 
> Any mistake is my own. Please ignore them as best as you can.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy.

**9th of May, 1944**

**East of Nógrádszakál, Hungary**

All he had was the Cold. It filled his bones, his head, everything. It was all he knew.

And he was drowning in it, dying in it. 

He didn’t struggle though. He never even tried.

He didn’t know what he was without the Cold.

But then the sound of a metallic click echoed, and the Cold was gone.

Hands were holding him up, so many hands - they were almost like tentacles - pulling, dragging, tugging him along. His body wouldn’t obey his commands, dead like a puppet craving strings to move its hands and feet. He felt heavy, his head plunged into burdened emptiness, wishing for the Cold to return and make him feel a emulation of wholeness.

Without the Cold he was...

Nothing.

He was thrust down into the Chair, and straps were pulled tightly and unkindly around his arms, an extra one for the left. He didn’t struggle. This was routine. Besides, to not comply meant pain. Then again, so did compliance. Pain was without prejudice. The Chair, however, was quicker than his handlers in delivering it. It didn’t smile when it hurt him, it didn’t laugh at his tears, it didn’t mock him for begging. It delivered swift, apathetic pain. He waited silently for it.

The pain didn’t come.

Moments passed, measured only by the soft rhythmic clicking and humming of his prosthesis. He peered out from under his lashes blearily, curious as to why the doctors were not setting up the Chair. They were nothing if not brutally efficient. The monsters had nothing better to do. 

He paused at that thought, wondering where it had come from. He wasn’t supposed to think badly of his superiors. Yet it felt….satisfying. 

He shook his head as subtly as possible, hoping it would quieten the thoughts. They would make the handlers hurt him. Or worse. Did the superiors know what lay in his mind? Keeping his body still so not to alert the doctors, he went to look up. The plates on his arm shifted softly into defence position without his permission as he did so. His heart beated a little faster, and his chest felt heavier than his prosthetic. 

Without the cold he was…

Scared.

He stifled his surprise when he discovered the room was empty, save for him. Instead of the rushing of doctors and handlers, an all consuming silence lingered. The tools were discarded throughout the room, glimmering murderously. It was never empty. He was never alone. There was always hands to drag him and eyes to watch him and mouths to order him. 

He was unsupervised for the first time he could remember. A strange feeling seeped into his stomach. Not fear, not nervousness. It felt alike to those, but not the same. He didn’t know what it was. It was new. What was it?

_ (Anticipation) _ , a voice not unlike his own supplied. It took him a moment to realise that no one had said it out loud. It was in his head. That was also new. It was soft, so different from the harsh tones of his superiors. He wondered what the voice meant. The handlers weren’t here; maybe he could ask. 

_ What do I do with it? _ , he questioned tentatively.

_ (Run). _

He didn’t know why, but it didn’t feel like a command. It felt like someone had finally told him what his purpose was. It was strange. If he was nothing without the Cold, why did this make him feel something? The feeling - the  _ anticipation _ \- spread, and his prosthetic whirred with excitement. It nudged at the restraints that held it down, wanting to be free of them. He let it, because the more he thought about, the more he wanted to be rid of the restraints as well. Defiantly ( _ they can’t hurt you if they don’t know)  _ he continued the process of tugging at his restraints, testing them. They wouldn’t budge. ( _ Try again). _ He did, because he trusted the voice. It was helpful. The restraints, however, were not. They were stubborn and unmoving. He moaned in ( _ annoyance) _ , but persistently continued to battle his chains.

When he heard the far off sound of a person approaching, he went still, his prosthesis freezing, the whirr becoming quiet, scared. His body wouldn't allow him to continue; it knew the pain that disobedience brought. The anticipation faltered, knowing its opportunity was now gone. He ducked his head, hair falling like a curtain to hide the glimmer of defiance that remained. He liked the defiance. It made him feel….

_ (Alive). _

He sighed, knowing that feeling would be gone soon. 

“ _ Hey! I think he’s waking up. _ ”

He flinched slightly at the sudden noise, then frowned. The voice was muffled, like whoever was speaking was underwater, words blurred and echoey. Were they watching him from a different room? Were they speaking about him? He remained still, listening intently.

“ _ Bucky, _ ” another voice murmured, the quietness of it not quite hiding the excited concern of the tone.

He tilted his head. He knew that word. The concerned voice began murmuring the word indistinctly in his head, all faint, faded renditions. He didn’t understand what it meant, but he knew the word, like a forgotten tune to a song he once could not stop listening to. His heart beat in rhythm to the hazy melody, as if it were trying to help him remember it. He knew it was forbidden to speak without being told, but he could not stop himself, feeling an intense, profound need to know where he’d the heard the song before.

“Bucky,” he whispered, testing the word on his tongue. The tune felt right, like it was a song made for him.

The room trembled, but he ignored it, listening to the echoes of the tune in his head. Bucky, Buck, Bak, Баки….

His lips curled up in a strange fashion. A smile, he remembered it was called. He was smiling, and the song kept playing it’s soothing melody. It made him feel…..

_ (Something’s wrong),  _ the helpful voice interrupted. It sounded anxious, unsure.

He went to ask it what was worrying it, but the footsteps returned, louder, and much more defined. The staccato steps on the tile floor reminded him of the staccato taps of a typebar as it stabbed the page and left a trail of ink in its wake. The sudden closeness of the sound made him look up in surprise.

He flinched at what he saw. The room was shivering violently, cracks darting up the walls in an erratic frenzy. The tools clattered to the floor, dancing crazily along the shaking ground. The room was falling apart, the world trying to break into the confines of the walls.   
  
But that’s not what had frightened him.    
  
Ghostly figures were watching him, beady eyes fixated on him. There was six of them, scattered around the room like forlorn wisps of smoke. They were blurred, distorted, all flickering like candles that had forgotten how to burn. Their heads twitched with inhuman movements, jerky and abrupt. It didn’t matter anyway; he could still see the sharp smiles that split their skin. 

Fear pooled in his stomach as they neared, their black eyes watching greedily as he began struggling in his restraints. The Chair wouldn’t let him go, pulling at his limbs, holding him out to the phantoms in triumph. Was the emptiness a test? Did they want to see how he would react? Did they see him defy them with thoughts of freedom? 

The buzz of electricity began to swarm around his ears. Visions of burning, screaming, hurting, haunted his mind.

He crumbled. Feeling alive was wonderful, exhilarating.

He didn’t want that feeling to disappear along with everything else. He didn’t want to lose the song that played so kindly in his mind.

“I will obey. I promise. I'm ready to comply! I will not disobey again! I’ll be good,” he begged, voice wavering uncontrollably. He whimpered when he realised he was only making it worse. Those without life didn’t fear pain or death. They would know he was defective.

The phantoms neared, their movements now so fast he couldn’t track their blurred movements, their spectral forms chaotic ribbons of smoke as they rushed towards him with their wide smiles.

They were happy to see him like this. They liked to play with their toys. They would smile as he burned.

His head sunk, weighed down by fear and defeat. He knew pain like an old friend, and he knew it was coming, delivered like a gift in the hands of the ghostly visitors. He knew it was inevitable.

But it didn’t mean he had to watch. He scrunched his eyes tightly, waiting in the darkness, hiding in it’s thin veil of ignorance.

He couldn’t stop his body from tensing when a hand gripped his shoulder. 

Even with the screaming of electricity in his ears, he felt a strange contentment with the fact the hand was warm. He didn’t want to die in the cold.

Without the cold he was….

Alive.

WIthout the cold he was….

“Bucky!”

He paused. There was that tune again. Maybe it was his swansong. Maybe that’s why it made him happy. It was a song he wouldn’t mind listening to as he was erased. He hoped it would stay with him when everything else was gone.

“Wake up!”

The warm hand shook him frantically. He felt the world shake and shift with the movement. The harsh burden of restraints faded from his wrists and biceps, replaced with a softer pressure that didn’t feel as confining. The buzz of electricity gave way to a ringing pain in his head and voices speaking words he could not decipher.

He still felt alive. The feeling wasn’t gone. That was….strange. He didn’t feel the void of emotionlessness. Was he...spared? No, that didn’t seem right. HYDRA was relentless, and he was their weapon. They wouldn’t stand for their Asset being malfunctional.

Confusion settled itself under his skin, but fear kept him from opening his eyes. They could still be playing with him. He didn’t want to die trapped in their lies.

The hand shook him again. 

“Stop it,” he muttered absently. He frowned slightly at how his voice sounded slurred and drowsy, but mostly at the fact he’d said the words at all. He wasn’t allowed to give orders to his handlers unless it was a mission, and even then it was mostly for show. The hand( _ ler? _ ) kept shaking his shoulder, but not in a way that hurt, and continued with the motion until someone...a female?….repeated what he’d said, though it sounded strange the way she said it. It sounded off.

The hand complied upon her repetition, and withdrew. The shaking stopped, and he was still.

His whole being was motionless, tense, awaiting some catastrophe he couldn’t foretell. For a moment, everything was frozen in the darkness of his mind. The ringing in his brain, though, grew more incessant, and he furrowed his eyebrows in pain.

“My head hurts,” he mumbled, almost defiantly, testing to see what the handlers would do. To his ears, though, he just sounded petulant.

Someone replied, but he didn’t find himself able to listen, the buzzing in his head drowning out the world, drowning out everything, even his own thoughts. The buzz just kept ringing, filling every crevice, every gap in his mind. It burned the darkness under his eyelids, and he figured it would grow all the more worse if he remained in the steadily diminishing bliss of his mind. So he opened his eyes.

It took the world a moment to filter into view, and when it did, it was coloured by a pale red haze of pain. The first thing he saw was a blond haired man, face a picture of worry, surrounded by a halo of distant trees and an early morning sky. The ringing in his head stopped with a suddenness that was as jarring as the sound itself. He could hear his thoughts again, and the first was a hope the pain would go away with the ringing.

If anything, it was a silent explosion, because the walls his unconscious mind had made shattered to pieces.

And everything flooded back in.

Bucky lurched forward as the wrongness of his soul rushed back in, and the world attacked his senses. The river of blood engraved itself once more onto his conscious mind. As did the guilt, and the hate, and the memories. And  _ Steve _ . 

His stomach, empty as it was, provided him with nothing to expel, leaving him to dry heave pathetically. The task was made difficult by the ropes wrapped around his arms and body, as well as the tree that held him up in a sitting position. He ignored it for now, struggling with the intense nausea that had overcome him. Images flitted through his mind like a corrupted film, too quick to interpret comprehensively. Nevertheless, he knew what it was showing him. Death, loss, things and people long gone. Old stories that had lost their endings, or their beginnings, contextless and half-forgotten. Burning, lightning, metal and blood. Victims, handlers, torturers and doctors.

It was the story of him, Bucky Barnes, the Winter Soldier. It was everything his mind had given to him, and everything that would torture him, burden him, until he faded to nothing and all that was left of him was the mark he left on history. 

His empty stomach wouldn’t release him, and neither would his ropes, leaving him stuck in their awful embrace as he retched. The warm hand -  _ Steve’s _ hand - returned, rubbing circles into his back. It helped very little. His nausea was beyond physical remedy. If anything, it made it worse. He didn’t want Steve’s comfort. He didn’t deserve it.

He remembered hurting Steve. He’d strangled him, told him he meant nothing to him. He’d nearly killed him. The images wouldn’t leave him, and the faint red marks around Steve’s neck and the forgotten bandage around his hand did little to make them stop haunting him.

This was worse than the nightmare. Atleast he can wake up from that. 

When he could breathe again without coughing, Bucky ducked his head away from the captain to hide the tears that flecked his eyelashes. He could feel all his companions eyes on him, observing him. His ears burned with shame, and his hands folded into fists, his nails digging his palms. The loops of rope that held his wrists together made his hands create a distorted heart shape as the fingers dug into his skin. The ropes were the only thing stopping him from running as far away as he could, to somewhere where no one would ever find him or be hurt by him.

He felt exposed, but he couldn’t hide, couldn’t fall back into the shadows. He was trapped in focus. Trapped in a spotlight he had long since grown fearful of. They’d seen him break, fall apart, and now they were watching to make sure the shards wouldn’t be a danger to them. But he was; he was a danger to everyone. He was a murderer hiding in the guise of innocence. He couldn’t hide anymore. Steve has seen his worst self doing what it did best. Killing. Even if it was to protect the others, the Asset had been brutal, more so than Bucky intended. If he hadn’t been programmed to be without emotion, Bucky was sure the Asset would have enjoyed the game of killing those soldiers immensely. The last had only survived because Steve had been there to save him from drowning in his programming. Even then, Steve got hurt in the process. 

Everything was so wrong, so awful. And it was all his fault. He had been a bomb that had been bound to explode, and now that had occurred, he had to deal with the fallout. He wanted to stay in the silence, stay in the lie that he was his past self, but he couldn’t. That would be disrespectful to the old Bucky’s more honourable soul. He knew he couldn’t hide the truth from them, not anymore. But he wouldn’t -  _ couldn’t _ \- tell them everything. He would have to tell them who he was, in a way that wouldn’t wreck the future somehow. Bucky knew that was just an excuse. He knew that deep down, he couldn’t stand to see Steve feel the weight of the world before he should, to drown in a guilt he shouldn’t feel ( _ not now, not ever, because it wasn’t his fault _ ). Steve felt every emotion to goddamn much, and self-hatred was one of them. To lie would hurt Steve, but to tell the truth in it’s entirety would kill him. 

He breathed out a rasping sigh, preparing himself, before flicking his eyes hesitantly to Steve.

Steve looked like someone had been shot, and was slowly dying in front of him. His eyes were gaping wide, the surrounding skin a light red hue, the iris’ darting erratically as they searched Bucky in concern. Bucky retained eye contact, but shrunk under Steve’s gaze.

“Bucky?” the captain questioned tentatively.

_ Yes, yes, I’m Bucky, that’s me. I’m sorry for hurting you. Please, I can explain. _

However, his mouth didn’t say any of that. It didn’t want to comply. It was heavy as lead in his mouth. He knew too well how defiant his words could be after an episode. Hell, they were always defiant nowadays. He could barely ever manage more than a few sentences before he’d reached his word limit. Just the after effects of having his mind irrevocably screwed up by HYDRA, it seemed. 

So, feeling absolutely pitiful at his meagre reply, he nodded.

Steve’s mouth flickered upwards in relief, but faltered when another question touched his lips.

“Do you...do you know who I am?”

Bucky nodded again, but knew that wasn’t enough. He licked his lips, trying to put all focus in saying his friend’s name, to confirm both to himself and to Steve that he remembered how intertwined their lives were. With more effort than should be used when it came to speaking his native language, he managed to make the word form on his tongue.

“...Steve.”

Despite the raspy sound of his voice, it came out clear, and brought with it a huge smile from Steve. Next thing Bucky knew, Steve had thrown his arms, however awkwardly, around Bucky and was squeezing him affectionately. Bucky tensed under the hug, feeling the programming flicker vaguely in his chest, but both the ropes and Bucky’s strength of will stopped him from letting his instincts take over. Bucky eyed the others whilst Steve’s arms remained wrapped around him, noticing the differing reactions amongst them. Amongst them was traces of worry, uncertainty, amusement and joy. Peggy, though, was unreadable, any emotion hidden under her stony mask, but by the relentless stare she was giving Bucky, it was nothing good.

Bucky didn’t smile at them, knowing that wouldn’t assure them in any regard. Instead, he waited for Steve to withdraw from the embrace. Steve did eventually, probably realising that it was both a tactical error, given the fact that Bucky had attacked him not too long ago, and that it was not reciprocated, which was to be expected, given the fact Bucky’s hands were tied, in the most literal sense. Even if they weren’t, Bucky wasn’t sure he would have returned it any way. 

Steve gave a weak smile, before his eyes fell down to regard the ropes around Bucky with a cringe.

“Sorry ‘bout the ropes. Peggy said it was for the best, just in case you were still…”

He trailed off awkwardly. Bucky knew why. Steve couldn’t make himself say what needed to be said.

“Psychopathic?” Bucky suggested flatly, lips fitting around the sounds awkwardly as he struggled with the long, relatively complex word. Even then, it had a hint of Eastern European accent to it, but not one someone would notice unless they were listening for it. Though, given the way Peggy’s face twitched, she had been, and she’d noticed.

Steve’s face, on the other hand, did a cartwheel of emotions - denial, anger, reluctance - before deciding on a resignated frown.

“Yeah, Buck...That.”

A awful, awkward silence followed. Bucky rubbed the fabric of his pants between his fingers to calm himself. His eyes trailed away to stare absently at the ground. It was littered with the corpses of leaves, the remains all pitiful imitations of what they once were, having fallen from their branch days, maybe weeks ago. In time, they would be replaced and forgotten, serving only as mulch for the grass that would grow once the winter had come and gone, and the world was green again. But for now, they coloured the ground with the subdued oranges, reds and browns. In a way, though they were sombre, the leaves were rather beautiful. Focusing on the leaves helped him ignore the stares he was getting, and he wished he could drown in their beauty so he wouldn’t have to see his friend’s horror when they discovered the truth.

A collection of the same leaves cracked under nearing footsteps. Bucky raised his head hastily, and was greeted by Peggy eyeing him intently as she neared. He watched stock still as she approached, knowing she had questions, and she wanted answers. Steve looked at her with uncertainty, but it was apparent he knew what she was doing, giving Bucky the same look. Despite his worry, Steve retreated away, leaving Bucky to face Peggy alone.

She stopped right in front of him, causing Bucky to have to look up at her from where he was sitting. Her lips were pursed, eyes narrowed and scrutinising. Bucky managed to retain eye contact as she stared him down, though he highly aware that his eyes were more wary than anything. 

Her first question surprised him.

“What did you mean by ‘I’ll be good?”

Bucky tilted his head, confused by the question. 

“You were muttering in your sleep,” Peggy clarified, before repeating exactly the final words he had said in his dream. “What were you dreaming about to make you say those words?”

Bucky eyes widened in horror, a shaky breath escaping him. Had they heard everything from his dream? His stomach tightened at the thought of them witnessing his reactions to the dark images his dream had provided. 

It was Steve who answered, though with a question of his own. The captain was looking at Peggy with a shocked expression.

“Is that...is that what he said?! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

Peggy looked at Steve with a composed expression.

“Because I wanted to ask Sergeant Barnes why before I told you.” She returned her gaze to Bucky. “I would also like to know why you were sleep talking in Russian.”

Bucky blinked at the new question. Had he? It made sense, and it wasn’t surprising, given the context the dream had provided him, and the fact that everything in his life seemed to lead back to Russia nowadays. His life as the Winter Soldier began there, and in many ways, the person he was now was created there. 

Maybe now, he thought, was as good as any as to begin telling them the truth.

“I….don’t….belong here,” he managed to say in halting English. 

Peggy, along with the Commandos, frowned. The former’s mask of indifference faltered ever so slightly, a hint of confusion flickering across her face.

“What do you mean?”

Bucky looked around helplessly, unsure how to explain.  

“I’m...bad. I hurt Ste-” he began, before deciding that wasn’t enough. “...I hurt  _ everyone. _ ”

Steve shook his head so fast and so suddenly that Bucky thought it might fly off. The captain rushed forward and kneeled before Bucky so to be eye level with him, giving him the widest, most saddest eyes imaginable.

“No, no, Buck, no, that...that wasn’t you. I...I don’t know what happened back there, but it wasn’t you.”

“But it was,” Bucky corrected sternly. The words were becoming more defined on his tongue, the defiance relenting ever so slightly. He suspected it was the importance of what he was about to say that allowed the words to form better on his tongue.

Steve shook his head again, albeit slower and firmer this time around.

“I don’t believe that for a second. I know you; you would never do that.”

Bucky sighed heavily, and turned his head away. He wished his hair was a longer length so he could hide behind it. He hated how vulnerable he felt knowing the others could see the sombre look on his face.

“You...don’t know me, Captain. Not anymore.”

He saw in his peripheral vision, Steve’s face freeze. If it were not for the faint crinkle of hurt and confusion between his eyebrows, Steve would have looked emotionless. Bucky knew that was far from the truth. Steve was hurting, the blues of his eyes hiding a storm. Bucky wilted, feeling his lungs tighten in his chest and the ever present guilt that hid there flare violently. Right now was when he needed to say the truth, he knew it. But, every part of him was screaming, still scared to leave the hiding place he had made. He wanted to be Steve’s Bucky, for Steve to be happy and to be rid of the weight the world had heartlessly made him carry in the future. Bucky knew it’s burden too well, and he knew that Steve bore it’s effect like a tattoo he wanted to hide. But no one can. Bucky wore the weight in his eyes, and Steve in his smiles. Bucky didn’t want to see the genuinely happy smiles of this Steve fade. Bucky was the scapegoat, the one who had to carry the weight of the world sins for it to be balanced, because he’d taken away too many pillars of virtue and innocence already. It was his rightful place, and he had come to terms with that. But Steve, Steve didn’t deserve that at all. He didn’t deserve the guilt, or the sadness. Bucky wished that he could take away Steve’s load and carry it for him, if it meant the man would be free of the ridiculous burden that time and loss had carved out for him.   
  
Telling Steve that his best friend was no longer the man he used to be - that the years had eroded him away, that everything they once had would be gone forever - would do little to help with that wish. If anything, it would give Steve a taste of how heavy the world really was. But, he knew no lie would fit his story, explain his life, explain why he was here. The truth was a story no liar could make up. 

And so, with a heavy heart, Bucky told him.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, turning to look at Steve, trying to convey his sincerity. He took one final, deep breath, before he continued, “I’m… not him. I’m not your Bucky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No translations this time. You're all good. 
> 
> Also, sorry about the cliffhanger. I was originally (ha ha there's that word again, gosh the 'original' version of this would have been happier and more insightful but alas, you got a mostly vague, introspective, angsty chapter) going to have everyone find out about Bucky's time travelling escapade, the so-and-so. Next chapter, I swear.


End file.
